Of Hollows and Evermores
by BellonaBellatrix
Summary: This is a character study of Gabriel Gray in his early years, his meeting with Chandra Suresh, and his transformation into Sylar. But every change has a doubleedged sword. Hand in hand come promises of new beginnings and disasters.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All fictional characters in this fanfiction belong to Tim Kring and NBC. There is mention of one real person in here, but he doesn't belong to me either ;-) There are also some more credits at the end.

Author notes: A sincere thank you to Mistress Siana, who beta-ed this story for me. Any mistakes within are my own, completely. (also credit to Siana for help with the summary). ETA: This fiction has not been 'updated'. I divided it into chapters because looking back on it and re-reading it myself, I thought it was a bit too long for one page, so to speak. I apologize for any possible confusion.

Warnings: It's a dark, longish fic, with murder and a bit of supernatural (or something else entirely) horror.

Of Hollows and Evermores

Chapter 1

"You were born in a very special way, you know."

Indeed Gabriel did. He had heard the story of his birth the first moment of the morning and the last second of the night. His mother always beamed when she told the story—their story. At the age of five, he was already very adept at reading his mother's expressions but only in the sense of an animal scenting a chemical danger.

While he was good, he was no means perfect at prediction. But the story was the one real lighthouse in their relationship.

His mother sat on the edge of his bed, her eyes shining brightly. He was very still because his behind was still sore from the incident several hours ago. He had been playing with a snow globe, and he had heard _something._

Rather than the familiar song of whirling gears, clicking together in place, there was a catch in the middle of the higher crescent of the melody. It was undetectable to most people, the small snag as the hands of the gears slipped off each other, as opposed to shaking hands. The snag/hang nail/inhalation of a sticky lung that will never in the seven hells of ever exhale again was undetectable to a majority of people, including the manufacturer of the snow globe and including Virginia Gray. However, it had overwhelmed the little boy in a wave of negative emotion as much as an off note would pain a compulsive composer who's only real sense is his hearing.

_This is what has been making my mommy sad today,_ Gabriel thought, holding the horrible hangnail snagged globe out at arms length and wrinkling his nose in disgust. The good thing was that he knew exactly how to make it better. So he had hurled it (a miniature representation of Kentucky) to the hard wood floor as hard as his little arms possibly could.

He had laughed as it shattered, and his mother…

"Your father was gone. As per usual. Addiction is such a damning, disgusting thing. I found that out about him later….after I was pregnant with you. You see, with children, there come responsibilities."

Now, also, comes the fear. Breathing becomes more difficult but since it was so late, and so dark in the room (the only nightlight being one with a lone crucifix on the wall), he wasn't sure of the cause.

"Later, though, I worried. I wore myself down with worry. I thought he'd be a doctor. Instead, he was a watchmaker. I had plans, myself. But then God had plans for me instead."

She sighed, and studies him, as if looking for any telltale sign of a compulsion. She'll find one but that is for later.

"I knew it was a sin, having you a little too early. I wondered what kind of child you'd be from such a thing."

Virginia wringed her hands in emphasis. "I can't say what made me decide to keep you. Really, I'll be honest, because honesty is a virtue and there can be no secrets between you and I, can there? I was lucky enough to have the right amount of money to have the procedure, you know; I had saved for months when I found out about you. Wouldn't you know by the time I finally had the right amount you were too old to be returned. So. I was thinking of doing it myself. Almost all the time, when I started to show. One time you kicked me so hard it hurt for hours later. You never kicked before, or really after. It was like you heard something in my heart."

At this interlude, there was a superstitious, nearly primal way she looked at the boy, buried under the tulip-lined comforter. This little room was cozy but they both felt the undercurrents of suggestion: that the boy had demanded to live and did what he must to live. He twitched and his fingers threaded the fibers of the covers.

"My father always said to reap what you sow. But it was more of a _feeling_, really. I had a life inside of me, and how often does that happen? To have a life."

"Then I had that dream. Of that dark shadow floating above me, me with you growing inside. I didn't know if it was a bad thing, necessarily. Perhaps it was all my fear, absolved. Perhaps I wasn't asleep at all, I think, sometimes."

In reality, the last part was impossible. In her distress over the rapidly approaching arrival of a new person in her life, as well as her parents' rejection of her (one for two, a rotten trade), she had been taken sleeping pills most of the time, to pass away the time and the pain. But the truth is relative, especially in the eyes of children, and really, that was what mattered in stories.

"You're a special boy. I think it was my reward for keeping you, you know. I know that when you grow up, why, you won't forget your mother. I've give up so very much, and there's a great big world out there to see. You wouldn't step out on me."

"But today, you made me worry again. I saw you smile as you broke one of my favorite things. You know how much I love my collection. You _laughed_."

She stares solemnly at him, shaking her head sadly. And so the ritual ends, and she plants a kiss on his forehead.

"Are you thinking good thoughts?"

He actually wasn't thinking many good thoughts at all, but nodded just the same. She smiled, beautiful for a moment, and closed the door.

Gabriel turned to look at the closet door, and wonder. Wonder at the mechanics of the whole thing. He didn't know that particular word, yet, but he pondered for a simple, pressing question. What if he wasn't good enough? What if his mother had seen something bad in him today?

What would happen, in such a world, if that were so? The image of that black thing hovering over his mother tormented him.

So he stared at the closet door, wary, and quite small, and quite wrong for he didn't feel special at all, and wasn't that a terrible lie?

He decided he couldn't, wouldn't wait for something to come for him, for telling that lie, so he snuck out of bed, clutching the blanket and pulling it along with him. All the while, he kept an eye on the door, and it was sweet but cold relief when he made it into the den.

Gabriel gasped as pain raced up his foot. He fell down, crumpling his blanket, and looked, nearly screaming. In the moonlight, the sliver of glass looked, to all appearances, like a tooth of some ghastly thing. He pulled it out, and knew that his mother hadn't cleaned up the mess he had made because she had had to lay down on the couch, immediately after, with her hand on her forehead, her eyes shut, and her ears silent to his apologies and rages for attention.

He saw all the pieces littering the floor, and thought of pirates treasure.

But it was a bad thing, and that bad thing was in him. So he promised never to do _it_ again

* * *

The rest of his childhood before elementary school passed peacefully.

His father came home more often, and though he didn't talk all that much, he had taken up the habit of taking his son to work in the watch shop with him. The habit became something to look forward to.

Only his mother didn't approve for Gabriel had nearly always missed his naps or was looking too peakish to go battle the New York smog, in her opinion.

The rare opportunities where he was able to go would fill his memory. He would think about being at the shop most of all when he was stuck at home. One trip could sustain him for a month.

Six year old Gabriel did not think of loneliness, but his mind took a natural turn towards tendencies of the lonely. The first time his friend came to him was not during the night (which he suffered alone) but during the day when he was bored stiff. That day had been a Monday, that's all he could remember, because they had gone to church the day before.

That day he had been sprawled out on the living room rug, with a hand shielding his face from the sun and a Bible resting nearby on the coffee table.

All those miracles. Incredible, impossible, delightful miracles. He believed in them, wholeheartedly.

But he had questions in his mind he didn't dare voice out loud, and he had to squirm in his seat instead, feeling restless the entire service. His mother had not been pleased to say the least, but the questions had stuck with him.

From the window, his favorite place in the apartment, he had seen through the years the deaths of many an animal. Cats, mostly, but flies and birds and dogs. Two out of the four had made a habit of killing each other. The baby birds, of course—one would always fall out of the nest. Over the years, he had counted ten dead from tabbies and wind.

The Sunday service had been about God being reflected in Nature. Gabriel had listened especially hard, so he could remember.

His question that had burned on the tip of his tongue was this. If God was in Nature, what was the nature of God?

Because sometimes it was scary, nature, with its storms and casual giving and killing. Gabriel didn't _want_ to think on it, really he didn't. But he had to; his mind had been hooked by the idea.

So he had lain there half the Monday, holding a hand to his forehead, mulling it over.

"What on earth are you doing?" his mother finally asked at noon. She had been stepping over him all day pointedly, and the dust motes from the air that had settled around her son in the afternoon heat had a trail of footprints.

"Pretending I can fly," he replied, which was half true, if one pretended the ceiling was the ground.

"Oh. Well, when you've over Paris, do remember that lunch is almost ready."

"I'm not hungry, Mom."

She froze.

"Are you sick?"

He shook his head.

"Then are you aware that there are people starving around the world who would love to have just a pinch of bread?"

"No," Gabriel responded, sitting up quickly and blinking in the sunlight.

"Thoughtless. How did I raise such a thoughtless young man?" There was a heavy silence while the clock ticked. "I don't want to see a single crumb left on the plate, do you understand me?"

He nodded, sitting down at the table, and the thought of nature and dogs kept repeating in his head, making him quite sure he was going to be ill.

"Mom, why are people hungry around the world?"

"Because people are selfish and thoughtless."

"Why doesn't Santa Clause give them loads of food for gifts, then?...and a refrigerator."

His mother paused at the sink. "A refrigerator is much too heavy for a reindeer to carry."

"Even thousands of them?"

"Even then," Virginia replied in a softer tone. In his mother's mind, he was logged back into the angel category, without any intent on his part.

"Why doesn't God grow a whole crop for them? It says in the Bible that only God really grows things."

"Because it is meant to be, and we are not to question his will."

There and back again. God and dog, heads and tails. Gabriel really wished he could stop thinking. He had beaten his desire to see what made the television work or the blender whirl by looking a pictures in books in their stead, but on this subject, picture books were the equivalent of see spot run.

"If it is because of people, then how is it his will?"

She laughed. "I'm on to you now. Eat your food and be grateful I had the energy to make it."

By the end, Gabriel was glad for his sandwich, because his mother had always confused him. Of course, he figured it was a fault of his own understanding that he was a bit puzzled at her dislike of the neighbors for no reason but their appearance while the Bible said not to judge and love other people. Only sometimes it was hard hearing the kids laugh without him.

His mother examined the plate, and found there were still crumbs on it. She thrust the plate into his face.

"Lick it. I don't want a single crumb left. As they say, waste not, want not."

He saw his reflection in the plate as he obeyed, ashamed and wishing to hurry, to lick the plate clean as fast as he could, but he was forced to go slow, least he make a mistake. His mom pushed his chair into the table, and leaned against it, making it hard for him to breathe. He saw the floral print of her apron as she watched, avidly. He stared at his own dark eyes, his nose squished against the plate, and thought he sounded like a dog, and it disgusted him. He wanted to cry.

Then the reflection changed into another boy, and he clung to the idea so he wouldn't cry.

His visitor was Michael Gray—his long lost twin brother who had been separated from him at birth and given to a family that traveled the world in pursuit of treasure. They also were good hands at magic, and could make food rain from the skies. And the people there in that land loved his brother.

_Everyone could not live without his brother. _

Today he was coming back for Gabriel under an invisible glamour, and he would teach him magic.

And that was how it began.

* * *

"Now, I know everyone will be running up to you to be your friend." his mother said, cupping his chin with her hands. They were soft with dish-washing detergent, he noticed.

Somehow the idea of that wasn't too comforting, for reasons again he couldn't quite place, and he gripped his lunchbox tightly, as a drowning man might cling to a life-preserver. The first day of school loomed ahead; the first but not last hand of time on his back, pushing him forward.

"They'll simply love you. But take your time. There are some people who you really shouldn't be friends with. They aren't….well, they aren't good enough for you. The public school system is rife with small evils, and though _I _wanted you to be home schooled, this is the way it has to be. So we'd better make the best of it. "

_But how will I know which ones are the bad ones? _He looked across the busy street to where the herd of new first graders were gathering and eyeing the older children. What he assumed where the six graders had claimed the higher steps, closer to the doors, in a relaxed but assuming manner.

Great. A nature video in the making. Gabriel had long since discovered a type of program that did have a lot of the things—the types of things his mother censored religiously—that were suddenly educational. However, he never thought he'd actually be in one.

"I-I could just go home with you for the day, Mom. I can start tomorrow."

"Nonsense. And miss all your new classes? Your father will be by to pick you up at three sharp." Virginia Gray let out a very un-lady like snort of laughter, and that was the end of the discussion.

He made his way across the crosswalk, checking over his shoulder to see his mother already gone. He made the decision to skirt the large group of noisy children, and watch from afar. Gabriel knew he had to find a person he would actually like, or be like him at the very least. But from all the faces, from all the chatter, none of the children matched his idea of a friend that he had formed in his active imagination.

His friend was much taller, and wasn't afraid of anything (least of all the dark) unlike these small strange, separate species. There hadn't been many children in the Grays' apartment complex, and those special few were marked as the wrong sort. Gabriel sat down to wait, and watched the school clock, the hand of which was falling off and was too early.

After he had gotten into the place, he discovered that the name Gabriel caused certain difficulties among the second graders he had run into during the day, and to top that, seemed impossible for his first grade teacher, Miss. Finch, to remember. The old woman forced him to speak when he preferred to be silent, and be quiet when he wanted to speak. Recess was full of chaos, and he sought sanctuary under the jungle gym.

None of the boys understood a thing he had said, any way, and Miss Finch said that his father had taught him to read too early, which made him simultaneously sad and mad. So he turned inward, and looked for what was safe and common and under his control.

"Lucky you," he sighed, feeling as if he were burning up in the heat of the sun. "I bet you got to go to private school."

His twin smirked knowingly and nodded.

"And they don't tell you to 'shhh, that's a demerit," Gabriel held his finger to his lips for emphasis, and the boy confirmed his suspicions. "Well…who cares what Miss Finch thinks anyway? She looks like..." He thought of her head shape. "Like a human Tweety Bird," he declared, feeling satisfied. The other boy laughed, and smiled at him, reminding him of how the boys in his class acted around each other.

This new and improved at-home friend would do just fine in this strange place.

Just as he was getting comfortable, a shriek made him flinch, and a boy in jeans (named Brucie? Sprucie?) attacked the jungle gym, laughing and climbing up the side like a big blue spider. Gabriel started in curiosity, and tried to climb up as well. It was difficult, mostly because the boy didn't seem to want him on the jungle gym at all.

On the seventh fall, he clutched his hands together nervously. "I was here first, you know. I don't mind sharing, but we can take turns, right?"

The boy stuck his tongue out. Gabriel believed it was at him. Soon, half the class was swarming on the jungle gym, and despite his politeness, they didn't listen to him. He ended up crying as the infamous blue boy buried his glasses in the sandbox.

_That wasn't very nice_ his friend whispered, understanding his plight.

"I don't care; they're all a bunch of…stupid heads! I was there first, anyhow."

Recess was made up of these failures, and he stopped trying to play. He didn't care about them as potential new friends. He cared that they had potential new friends themselves, and unlike what his mother had predicted, no one approached him, or talked to him. His glasses were very good at becoming lost, almost equal to how bad he was at finding them.

He got to use his imagination more and more as he made up friends who wanted him to his mother. But really he did not care.

_Why does anyone like that smelly old thing anyway? _he wondered in March, sitting at the end of the play yard and looking at the gym in feigned distaste.

_Yeah, it is old, _his friend said. _It's not so great. _

_I can't stand them climbing all over it, hogging it, _he thought. _Kind of sad. And dangerous. My mom would have a kitten. _

_Then why not fix it? _

Gabriel gave a start from his daydreaming. "I should fix it if it's dangerous."

_Have to, right? What else can we do?_

It was a great, brilliant, vibrant idea, and his mother wasn't around.

On April 12, the gym collapsed on the weight of two children on the monkey bars, and fell on the three first graders playing house underneath it. He saw it happen himself, while he was gazing out the window. Instead of running out into the yard with the mass, Gabriel sat perfectly still, in shock.

By the time his mother picked him up on the steps, he was shaking like a rabbit. "I knew this school was no good," she hissed vehemently, bundling him up in her jacket and pulling him along.

"Mom," he whispered.

"I'm going to write a letter to the Mayor himself. We'll see if they can sweep that one under the rug. Or a letter to the news channel. Or to Michael Moore? No, he's a cretin. Well, a letter is going to someone somewhere."

"Mom."

"Then I'm going to transfer you first thing tomorrow. Oh, I knew it!"

"I-I was just trying to help."

"I bet you were the first one out there," she said, beaming down at him. "My little hero. But those horrible, wicked people!"

It was a lost cause. His mind held him fast, replaying the scene over and over again. He thought lightning would fall from the sky at any moment. He hadn't had an evil intent, yet something bad, very bad, had occurred. He didn't even notice that his mother had drug him quite the opposite way from home until he was in the familiar, strangely comforting shop.

"_What_ happened?" Daniel Gray asked in disbelief (and a little bit of fear) as he stared up over his glasses at his hysterically self-righteous wife, who at that moment could have been said to take on sheen of smugness.

"A tragedy—dare I say, death happened. It was simply wretched. The ambulances were there when I went by to get my child from your precious school. To think! It could have been Gabriel. We were blessed by God in that regard, but it's a very near miss. And you said it'd be good for him! Oh, look, there goes the news van," she remarked, sounding annoyed, as the van with the large number five zoomed by, leaving a rally of honking horns in its wake. "I imagine those children will be crippled for life, at least there will be brain damage or trauma of some kind. Can you believe it? And our son was the first on the scene to help!"

"That's not--," Gabriel hurried to say.

"Don't be so modest," she scolded, tussling his hair. "I mean, don't be vain. You have every right to be proud of your reaction. See, despite the _odds, _you are turning out quite well."

Daniel was studying his son carefully. His heavy eye loupes made him look like a praying mantis. "Are you all right?" Gabriel nodded quickly.

"You don't suspect he'll have emotional difficulties from this incident, do you?" Virginia Gray inquired, concerned. "He's sensible but sensitve. Horrible school, we'd have to sue."

"I don't think it will come to that," his father said, looking back at the watch on the table.

"Well, my day is gone. I had an appointment at one o clock with the charity, but I suppose now that I have Gabriel…"

"He can stay with me. It will be a busy day, so I'll need the extra help."

She smiled happily and patted Daniel's hand. "I knew you'd understand. This is all so upsetting."

"Gabriel, I don't want you distracted from your schoolwork. I know you like to play in here, and you are stressed right now, but you can't let this affect you. You tried your best. I will have a treat for you at home."

With that, she was gone with a wave, and he was left with a burning guilt that he was sure was stamped upon him. He didn't quite understand why his mother missed it, but his father didn't. There was a silence as he heard the snaps and clicks on the insides of the clock.

Gabriel sat down and got out his primer—or tried and failed as his hands were still shaking and sweaty. He waited, listening to the sound of the countdown with dread. What would happen? Would he be disowned, like his mother had been by his grandparents? Thrown out on the streets?

His mind went along with the sounds, the clicks, the sound the bars made as they fell.

"Dad."

"Hmm?"

"I did it."

His father looked up again, more slowly now.

"Not on purpose! I was just trying to make it better, the jungle gym. It was old, and dangerous! But it fell. I don't know why, I knew what I was doing."

Instead of resembling a bug, his father now resembled a fish. He gaped at his son for several minutes, then something clicked. Gabriel saw it visibly.

"….So that's where my father's tools went for the day?"

He blanched and ran towards the door. His father forgot the watch completely. The clocks filled the silence with overpowering noise, judgment, and things that made sense were thrown out the window. "I didn't mean to, but you hate me now, so I'll just go. Please don't tell Mom what I did."

"Sit down, Gabriel. Right by me, bring the chair over here. Just let me think."

He did as he was told, figuring it would be futile to try and get away. His father would catch him, or a big policeman would, and Gabriel preferred his father, naturally.

"Did anyone see you?"

He shook his head. "When did you do this—horribly…when did you do it?"

"Remember when I said…when I said I was staying behind to help Mrs. Finch with something, and she was going to help me in spelling…and you picked me up later."

"Yes, I figured that was the time." His father's hand was at his temple, as if holding himself together. "That whole week."

"Well, it was hard work. The bolts were really old and had been rained on alot."

"Oh my God. Please, I….are you positive no one saw you?"

He nodded, suddenly hopeful. His father noticed. "That doesn't mean I won't go to the school board and tell them what happened. I'm trying to decide the best course of action."

His heart plummeted to his toes. "I was just trying to help! It wasn't fair anyway."

"Fair? What wasn't fair?"

"Nothing," he muttered, feeling numb, and his heart now beat against his chest, as if trying to escape.

"I'm…we could be in a lot of trouble right now. Well, hell, we are in trouble right now." He gasped at the word, and his father waved it away. "It isn't right that the principal of that school hangs for this. I wish they had kept better watch, even after hours. Surely a teacher was there, at some time, or a maintenance man, or…someone surely should have stopped a six year old with a screw-driver. I can't even believe this."

"But it's not their fault," Gabriel admitted, holding on to the sides of the chair.

"No. It was their property, and I may be wrong, but I'm sure neither your mother nor I taught you it was all right to play with other people's property."

"It was my property too!"

"Speaking of which, for all that talk earlier, we could be the ones sued and we don't have anything to give. Those children, though…I can't believe it. You could end up being…no, you're only six."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He was now about to faint. "Don't let them take me away."

"What, no, of course not. You won't be going anywhere. I'm just not sure what will happen. Let's see…let's test the waters. We'll see what happens with those children. I pray your mother is wrong about any damage or injuries. If one of them is dead…"

"It wasn't that bad, I promise, Dad." This may have been a lie.

"We'll see. I'm coming forward if there is a death. We may be sued out of house and home but I…I think it's the right thing to do. However, if nothing happens like that, we'll keep quiet. And for heaven's sake, do not tell your mother."

"You really…think someone…died?"

"I don't think so. I'll take this on my shoulders, Gabriel, don't worry about that. I'm the one who didn't have his tools locked in his closet, and I'm the one who raised you. Nothing will happen to you, and I won't let it. For now we'll just wait. That's all we can do. But…"

His father turned towards him, his eyes incredibly fierce for his usually mild-mannered appearance. "Don't ever, ever touch anyone else's property."

"That's what you are doing!" Gabriel piped up, pointing at the watch as evidence.

"The owners pay me to fix their things, with their permission. There is a huge difference. Do you understand? Gabriel, can you see that?"

He nodded, mutely, terrified, but slightly frustrated. "It was all Michael's idea."

"Another boy at the school?!"

Gabriel jumped at his father's reaction. "No, he's my twin."

"I don't want to hear anymore about this. While we're at it, get rid of that imaginary friend because real people got hurt today. For most kids, imaginary friends are harmless. But with mine, of course, there has to be—"

They had to become quiet very quickly as the door opened to the shop and a customer stepped inside, looking bemused for some reason. Gabriel spent the hour with his father's hatred clear in his mind. He would run away later tonight, he swore it.

Until his father put an arm around his shoulder on the way home in the gloom, and he thought he'd test the waters as well.

"Nothing serious," his mother announced the next morning, with the paper in her hand. "One boy was in ICU but he's stabilized. Just a lot of broken bones."

"Thank heaven, "his father sighed, seeming to relax back in his chair as through a chain of terrible burdens had been removed. "_Thank God_."

"Well, yes, Daniel, it is a miracle. Ah, you could sign their casts when they get back to school, Gabriel. And I spy small egg left on your plate. The white part is just as good. Protein, you know."

"Okay," said Gabriel, happily and felt like he could go on, now, with time at his back. He hadn't realized things had frozen but now the difference was obvious.

"How much does the school have to pay?" his father inquired, hesitantly.

"Oh, it's simply through the roof. We could have bought ten new houses and a vacation to Paris. My, who would think what to do with that much?"

Daniel looked away, frowning heavily at the ceiling fan as if it was his worst enemy, and Gabriel's cereal was suddenly soggy again.

"By the way, Gabriel's coming with me to work after school," he declared, looking down the table at the boy who seemed to shrink in his chair.

"Daniel, no! You'll distract him from his work. Mrs. Finch says our Gabe is gifted, and I won't have you—ah, now you show an interest in him!" Virginia spoke with an air of one who just stumbled onto the inside joke of the universe. "Funny timing you have, Mr. Gray."

"Actually, I was trying to be thoughtful. You seemed so busy yesterday that it hardly seems fair to go to the school. It is out of your way."

His mother bit her lip, torn.

"Look, I'm _well_ aware that our son is gifted. I just want to make sure he gets some hard work under his belt. The right kind of hard work. Idle hands and all that."

"Well, since you put it that way, all right. Gabriel loves that shop anyway, though I can't fathom why…"

* * *

By the time he marched over to his father's shop, he felt he had aged a thousand years.

"Good, there you are. A second late, but still, I won't dock your pay."

"O…okay." His father shook his head, hiding a smile.

"Get started on your homework. Then, the second you're done, come over here. I'm having trouble meeting a deadline for this piece. Just hope you're better with watches than you are jungle gyms."

Gabriel did not see the humor in the situation at all and felt a little hurt by his father's attitude. He had fixed the jungle gym just right. Someone else had gone back and messed it all up again. Now, he had to prove himself. Those watches would be worth a gold star by the time he was through with them.

He sped by his primer, and leapt to the work bench.

"You're done already?"

Gabriel held up the book, his mouth set in a thin line.

"…All right. Get to it."

Even though he knew he was being punished—even though he wanted with every ounce of his being, not to display pleasure, it was futile. As soon as his fingers touched the old metal, and as soon as he saw the littering of smudged finger prints on the rims, he was gone in terms of his being.

His little body was still there, on the bench, but it only served as a cocoon for his soul. Gabriel didn't have to spare a single glance at the large pictures his father had drawn and set out, specifically for this occasion. The patterns were easy to follow, in this lifeless thing, and it was kind of like when his mother had talked about fate and God's hands.

The springs could only go one way, guided by the circumstances of their positions, and the coil would wind down, counting away like his father's heart when he leaned against his chest. His hands gave life to this assembly of patterns, of miniature planets, of lines that gave the impression of a blinking eye of a baby. A whisper of a passing bird through the trees. A flash of fish scales in the churning water.

In all the picture books, even the flowers had structure, divided by a perfect count, like a beehive, like a shell on the beach, like music. The human mouth moved through certain hinges. The lungs brought air in an out, almost exactly like a clock, and this metal, natural as soil, was made and designed to count those breaths. And if people have a soul, then why not something as small as a time piece?

Gabriel daydreamed and didn't make a single mistake, thus making his very surprised father have to cut off every preplanned sentence or lecture. He dreamed he had made a whole city down there, in the crevices of the gears and the fragile curls of the engraving. It had to be perfect, then, and he bent so close his breath fogged the metal, illuminated the fingerprints, feeling a part of the whole, as a star-gazer would under the clearest of nights.

For the first time ever, he was in a place where he was a person, and his thoughts and questions did not hunt him there. An untainted sanctuary.

"You're doing wonderfully," his father remarked, his surprise poorly hidden. Gabriel pointedly ignored him. "Here, take these. They're adjustable."

His father's eye loupes! He took them with glee, and dove in again, not wanting to let go of being a part of something.

"Well…well." Daniel watched his son work, and saw their resemblance. He was proud, even a little flattered. He had an unusually bright child. Him, of all people. But every silver lining cast a shadow. As he watched, he couldn't help but wonder how a person, even if they were just a child, so adept at putting things together could ruin…

He banished it at once, feeling sick. Watches were worlds, universes, and alternative universes away from jungle gyms. Of course he would be watchful, pay more attention. But his son's hands those weeks had been…scraped, from falling down supposedly, and…a week, it took a week.

_I'm a fool,_ he thought firmly, derailing that train of thought.

No matter what his wife thought, he did have a clear sense of responsibility when it came to Gabriel. Whatever the boy did would be on his shoulders.

Rightfully so.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Heroes is the property of Tim Kring and NBC.

Of Hollows and Evermores

Chapter 2

The years brought change. He was much closer to his father now, as a natural consequence of time well spent, and genuine love.

His mother was not pleased but his grades did not drop.

The only true problem were the troubles at high school, which were, of course, ever-present. Unlike when he was at the shop, where he felt like he controlled at least something, and unlike at home where he felt like he was at the center and people acknowledged he was breathing, school was a wild abyss where nothing was his.

The grades were his but even then, some subjects he could not understand, not for lack of trying. He wasn't especially liked or disliked. He wasn't bullied. He was his name sake, in every way possible.

He hated people laughing, for some reason, without him. He had a feeling he wasn't anyone, and despite the hatred of laughter, he wasn't quite sure what he liked except for figuring things out. He wasn't quiet, per se, though he hardly ever said more than the basics of 'how are you?' with a side of a smile.

See, in his head, he had a constant internal dialogue. In his head, he had a constant audience, who always laughed at his jokes (which he was quite fond of himself). It was hard to not to laugh sometimes, in the classroom. He understood the material at once, and was bored.

He liked being alone, and he hated being alone. He didn't know where to begin in terms of friendship.

And Gabriel had a feeling Virginia Gray was starting to suspect that. "You know, I would have thought you'd be at the top of your class, Gabriel. I know you could play sports, if you tried. It looks nice on college applications. How are you friends planning to impress the boards?"

Au contraire, he couldn't play sports; sports played him, and roughly at that. He had noticed, also, that he wasn't disliked. He just wasn't liked either. It could have been because his brain froze up every time someone ventured to speak. Possibly. So friendship was a white lie that made him feel more…like nothing.

If no one would notice you when you were gone, except those few relatives (who had to by default) there was something wrong, something that should be corrected. It drove him nuts when he thought of it. What was the point of breathing if you'd be gone in a blink of an eye with nothing to show for it?

"By the way…I have something I want to say, Gabriel, stop daydreaming."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"I know, but listen carefully. I was thinking about your father, and I think it's best if you know that he may be…well, jealous of you."

Now, this was a first. Gabriel blinked owlishly behind his glasses.

"It's not in a bad way. I just feel he may hold you back. In that shop. Because he lost so much of his life, you know. He may resent you. You have the future, and all he has is the past."

"Well, we're in the present," he offered, crossing his arms and hoping to die to get out of this conversation.

"Don't take it literally. I meant, in theory. Fine, if you don't want to listen, go ahead and live in that shop. Throw your god-given talent away, then. You can lead a horse to water-."

_But you can't make me drink_, he thought mulishly. He didn't have to be told he had a future. He knew it, and was looking ever forward to it, hoping.

In fact, if he thought about it, Gabriel was never in the present. He was always somewhere else, doing something else, and waiting for that person to come along. However, he never thought about it.

In his junior year, his life changed, in a way that his daydreaming would have never foreseen.

&&&

In his junior year, Gabriel was polite.

To say the least and most of it, so he never quite understood why it was so easy for some people to charm others. Like most people who want some control in their life, he saw clearly that he would need people to help make the pattern fit.

Someone to take him up on a job interview the first day, for instance. Others he did not need, and was rather shy about approaching. He was content to observe, and in reality, he was a part of most conversations. He would answer and entertain in his head, and be applauded. It was much better than the real thing because he knew what to expect.

Until he saw her. Or she saw him.

Either way, Rebecca Dunavant chose him as a lab partner.

"You seem pretty smart," she informed him on the first day of physics lab. Gabriel saw she was quite blonde and quite colorful, from her uniform with the school mascot on it. He hadn't even paid attention to the fact that the mascot was a badger but the placement of it on this fine day made him notice.

He stared at her, and smiled.

"So," she said. "Can I be your partner, then?"

"Um, please. Sure, that's fine. I don't mind at all."

"Okay."

He distinctly imagined having a great conversation with her, but actually doing it was turning out to be more difficult. Instead, he stared at the blackboard studiously.

"So…your name is…well, I know it starts with a G. Sorry, I'm not good with names."

"Oh, it's nothing. Wait, it's, my name is –_What is my name?_ he thought wildly–Gray. Gabriel Gray."

_Bond, James Bond. _His mind mimicked back viciously. In a way, he wished it was. At least Rebecca Dunavant wouldn't forget it completely.

"Right, I remember now. I'm-."

"Rebecca Dunavant. I know."

"Wow. Yeah, that's right. Cool."

He nodded and thought up some simple questions.

"So…seen any good movies lately?"

"Not really," she said, opening her lab manual.

"Me either. Um, okay, favorite band?"

"The Pixies."

"Me too."

"Really," Rebecca looked up, smiling at him. "What's your favorite song of theirs?"

"Um….I kind of like them all." He hadn't really thought of his favorite songs, and he wasn't sure if he had any at the moment. It was a stupid question to begin with, anyway.

"They are good." Then physics lab began and gave him time to plan another subject. Only it seemed there was nothing to say that was his own. He had just really mirrored her, and that wouldn't cut it. He focused on setting things up, with the oscilloscope, and Rebecca watched him do so. She mostly did a lot of watching and writing down what he wrote. Which was fine.

"Well, if you need any help, I'll be happy to help."

"Right," she said, smiling brightly. "Thanks. I'll see you later."

The only laters were physics laters, but…well, he did mind. He was just at a loss of how to proceed, of what move would get him closer to her. He began to wait by her locker, and though she was always kind, she was always brief and to the point. Soon, the locker progressed to the lunchroom, the stairs outside the school, and the football stadium.

Gabriel only had a week to plot in peace, often while he was walking from school to his father's shop. He imagined he was in love. This girl was bright. Not physics-wise, but in all the ways he wished he was. She could laugh, and he found it pleasing rather than annoying and loud and pointless. So he had decided to ask her out.

Possibly he could get the lasers in the lab to spell it out for her, in a spectrum or something. _Cheesy. _But effective.

He wished he could say the push on his back surprised him more than hurt him, but he hit the ground face first. Pain was the first sensation, and as his glasses pressed into the bride of his nose and he heard them crunch against the sticky pavement, and the edges of his vision went as black as someone blindfolding him, Gabriel just knew the glass had gone into his eyes, just knew it.

"Opps, look what happened here."

Who the hell? He recognized the voice, just not the name. Someone jerked on his collar and he was drawn up, choking under the pressure of it.

"Didn't the little faggot take a fall?"

"Well, he is soooo used to putting his mouth everywhere, the fucking pansy…"

"Probably thought he saw money on the ground."

His vision was starting to slowly come back, and he gaped, shocked. It was Richard McGregor. The star athlete of the school was attacking him.

"Think you're something, don't you? Think you're better than us?" Richard was asking him. "Why don't you talk?"

"Oh, he's been talking to _somebody._"

"That's right." McGregor glared at him angrily. "Somebody who doesn't want to talk to him."

Gabriel was pushed up against the brick wall of the alley, and McGregor was practically hanging him with the crook of his arm.

"Listen, you freak. No one stalks my friends. You got that? I don't want to see you within ten feet of Rebecca again, or else…well, you'll be learning to kiss ass without a mouth."

Something flared up within him, dark and angry and wounded at the offense. Who was this guy, to tell who he could speak to, like she was his property?

Words started to pour out of his mouth, like his own blood was, and he heard the words but couldn't believe him, yet his mind was on fire, and he was outside himself, looking at someone who looked just like him.

"I didn't see your name on her," his other self growled out and smirked, and it felt good. It felt like he had seen the first sliver of red after being eternally color-blind.

"Or maybe I just didn't see where you signed it. I will soon enough. And when I do, I'll _lick_ it off."

He felt the fist against his face before he could register the movement. He fell to the ground again, scrapping and tearing the side of his pants, and smelt the rotten garbage. It smelled real to him. He started to laugh.

"What the fuck?" a nameless minion of McGregor's whispered, unnerved.

"Get up, pansy. Fight back." McGregor kicked him in the side, and his breath caught momentarily in his throat from the pressure. He coughed out more blood, God, how much blood was there in him? His glasses hung from one ear.

"Go ah-ahead. Kick me again. Harder. Harder this time."

"Leave him alone, Rich," the minion uttered, retreating back into the street. "He's…he's crazy."

"Come on, nice and slow," he whispered, wanting them to see his pain, be consumed by his pain. "Make sure to let everyone see you from their windows. I have a f—feeling I'm going to get a new car."

McGregor was retreating now, and he wasn't through yet. He stumbled forward, and grabbed his shirt now, wiping blood all over it. Then he glanced into McGregor's face, eager to drink up the reaction. To his shock, McGregor didn't look mad, or pissed off, or ready to punch him again.

The blond boy looked repulsed, trying to push him back as if he had a disease. He was afraid of him. And not in terms of losing a fight either.

He let go.

"You…you, you," Richard stuttered weakly. Then he ran, leaving his prey alone.

Gabriel looked after the three boys runningdown the alley and burst into the street.

"Oh God," he whispered. "What's wrong with me?" He sat there, in the alley, pondering it, curled up in the smallest ball he could make. His heart seemed to rock him back and forth with its force. He couldn't even relate to having a fight normally, could he?

It was a quarter till seven when he limped up the busy sidewalk, abandoning his book in the alley. It was similar to the parting of the Red Sea, the way he was skirted.

_People would hate, and leave, and run, and get away from me. Can't they understand that I can't get away from myself? How is it fair?_

"Dad, I'm sorry I'm late," he announced, his cheeks burning.

"I was about to call…" His father gaped as if expecting to see Candid Camera pop up from behind him at any moment. He leapt to his feet almost comically, and started to approach.

"No, I'm okay!" Gabriel held up a hand. His father stopped, but still continued to look concerned. It annoyed him.

"Who? Who did this?"

"Some guys. I didn't know who they were. I think they thought I had money or something…"

"Who did it, Gabriel? Tell me."

"I told you."

"All right."

His father looked back down, and he leaned against the door, the pain almost doubling him up.

"Someone from school. Just someone who didn't…someone who is an ass-a jerk."

"Imagine, that many someones in one breath and I don't have a single name."

"Richard McGregor!" Gabriel barked out, clutching his arm, and it came out as sort of a whiny gasp.

"Oh, the quarterback."

"How do you know that?!"

"His father comes in here, every once and a while," Daniel said. "I'm calling an ambulance."

He rushed across the room and grabbed the phone off the hook and ripped out the cord. "No, no, no, it isn't a big deal!"

"...All right." His father stayed behind the desk, his eyes becoming locked up tight, and what the hell was going on?

"What? What is it? What do you see that is so horrible?"

"My son covered in blood. That might just qualify."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it."

"There's a washcloth in the back room."

_Glad to get rid of me,_ he raged silently, banging the door open and grabbing the rag blindingly and not caring at all.

"Come back here, Gabriel, for God's sake! You could have a concussion!"

"You told me to go back here, didn't want me to bleed on your precious floor, make up your mind," he raved, marching back. "More concerned about what your customers would think."

He saw the closed sign on the door, and that made it worse, worse, worse. "Keep it open, we don't have enough money as it is. You're the one who put me in that school, right?"

His father seemed quite content to let him rage at him. "Calm down. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. I've seen all the bodily fluids from you when you were one, you know."

"I think I'm dying."

"That's nice to know, with our phone service so great at the moment."

"…I'm sorry about the phone."

"It's nothing. I hated it anyway. Ringing all the time, we're a slave to the phone. Talk to this person, a million miles away, instead of the person right next to you. I'm glad to see it go, frankly."

They sat in silence, and he was grateful when his father dimmed the lights since the brightness hurt his eyes and made him feel naked and foolish.

"He doesn't deserve it," Gabriel whispered in the shadows, holding the rag to his bloody lip. He felt the rag grow heavy, and he didn't go get another. "In a few years, I'm sure he'll lose it all, won't he?"

Daniel felt the cool wood of the cabinet under the desk with his leg, and thought of the liquor within it.

"What doesn't he deserve?" he inquired, puzzled.

"Being the mayor's son. Being rich. Having a scholarship. Having Rebecca. None of it!"

"Because he beat you up?"

"Yes! I saw his cruelty, I know that part of him exists, so how could he deserve anything good at all?!"

"Lots of boys get beat up. I've been on both sides of the fence, I'm afraid. It's part of growing up. Though I'm sorry it happened."

"Don't you get it?! I'm better than him, and I don't have any of that."

"Someday. Patience. I know you're smart, and if you work hard--."

"I can have this little gem of a place." He laughed, and his head hurt. Deep inside, he knew he should stop but he couldn't. "I get it now. You're jealous of me."

"...I am? I had no idea that working hours to provide for you indicated that. How selfish of me."

"How could you possibly be satisfied with this, Dad?" Gabriel's tone turned into curiosity. "If you were to die tomorrow, no one would notice."

"Including you?"

"Think about it."

"I am. There, done."

"You're not listening, fine. Forget it."

"Sometimes you can't just take things back. Once they are out there, they are there, and you deal with the consequences."

"Well, McGregor's jealous of me too. He said as much. So I can't say I don't know how it feels, now."

"What has gotten into you?"

"It's that…it's just I'm better than most people. I must be."

"Oh really? I wasn't aware that the President called you every morning to make his decisions for him."

"I'm better than those people outside. Look at them, Dad. Look at him, stuffing his face by the newsstand. Huh? Can't you say I'm better than him?"

"Why do you have to be?" Daniel asked, looking at his son as if seeing him for the first time.

"I can't help it. There's really not a question of it."

"But look where you are, Mr. High and Mighty. In my shop, that makes money from those people who you think you're better than."

"I'm going to be something whether you like it or not."

His father leaned forward, trying to take his hand, but he pulled it away, glaring.

"Listen to me, Gabriel Gray. You're living in the future, and that's a very bad thing, missing every moment with the 'could have beens'. You'll never be happy with single step you take, because of the standards you've set for yourself. And I raised you. Where did I go wrong?"

"That's not true, Dad, I-."

"Is this why no children, no friends, no girlfriend ever came over? Because you've been waiting for _that person_?"

Gabriel froze, feeling extremely naked, as if every thought had suddenly been illuminated in a neon sign.

"I can tell you right now _that person_ will never come because you have single-handedly tossed every person you meet aside. You've got to care about other people, and be interested in them, for them to care about you. And they might have great things, wonderful things to share with you. Right? You see?"

Daniel Gray took a risky step, for him. He leaned over, intending to hug his son, without having to envision the act in his mind. Gabriel recoiled, a child-like denial in his eyes.

"I don't dislike people!" he refuted. "When have I ever been rude to anyone? I've always been nice, like you taught me. I can't help it if they aren't nice back, can I?"

"Heaven help me, I have such a serious child." He sighed, almost smiling.

"I don't want to say anything wrong, what if I do? What if they do?"

"You're simply trying too hard. You have a good heart. If you were just yourself."

That patient, monotone, soothing voice had the same effect on his other self as the moon did the tides. He felt his fist hit the desk so hard it shook, and now, it was his father's turn to cringe (_and look, that look of wary animal concern of something wrong, something chemical, something evil)._

"I DON'T HAVE A SELF TO GIVE!" he screamed out; in reaction to the negative look, it drew out the positive truth. "Don't you get that? And if my sin is envy, if I am jealous-hearted-,"

"Hurt! Hurt is the word," his father shouted back, and they faced each other, on opposite sides of the desk, and looked for all the world like twins.

"If I'm that bad, I'll just save people the trouble. I'm doing them a favor!"

"…Someday, you'll look back on these years with regret. Go on home."

"Like this?" Gabriel yelped. "Mom will get upset."

"Perhaps, but there's rubbing alcohol at home."

"Sure you don't have _something_ here I can use?"

His father withdrew, wincing as if he had been slapped, as if he was the one who was just beat up, and Gabriel was sick of it. His father did not understand him one bit.

"Okay, I'm gone. Have a nice night."

"Goodbye, Gabriel." He saw the cabinet had been unlocked, and curled his lip.

Slamming the door shut of their home, he did not think of his father for the rest of the night, and continued the trend in the morning. He only knew that his mother was yelling at dawn because his father had staggered in.

Instead of going to school on his morning escape, he journeyed to the public library and hid there until two. He had planned to read but on the pages, all he could see was the word _stalker_. It changed her looks in his memory, her laughter so much, and bestowed the images with fear and dislike. He sat, with a deep well of quiet sadness and the echoes of self rebuke.

At two, he walked home with an apology in his heart, seeing the point. He would have to be the one to mend it. He would make sure to be right from now on, certainly, he could be better. This would be the last argument he would ever have with his father.

At two thirty, Gabriel opened the door to his home, and found he was right.

"Mom?"

Virginia Gray knelt by the floral couch, deep in prayer, her lips moving fervently. She was almost vomiting the Lord's prayer.

"Mom?" he asked again, holding onto the door.

"How dare he do this?!" she laughed out, turning to look at him. "Make him stop." She pointed at the bedroom.

The lump of covers on the floor seemed to be shaking, and he saw one lone foot peeking through the mess. He didn't have to wonder who it was, really, though he would.

Only one thought cut through his mother's screams, and oh, how he wished she could drown it out. _Oh God. I've killed my father. _

Clear. So clear, even as his limbs moved on their own accord, and he heard his own voice from outside his head, so far away and stuffy and afraid and _weak_. "Dad?" he practically whispered, and grabbed his father's shoulder gently. Gently, though in his head, he was shaking his dad, knowing it was all a joke, and he saw the man's face from yesterday, undone.

Daniel Gray had been asleep when the first seizure hit him, so the covers were still tangled around him. He was still alive, though, still, and his dark eyes watched Gabriel closely, asking, pleading.

"Icanfixthis," Gabriel said in a rush, trying to hold his father down, and reaching for something to put under his father's tongue, to keep him from biting down on it, or swallowing it, or oh God. He remembered, instinctively, that his father always had a small spoon to go with his coffee in the morning.

His free hand groped along the table top, and thought he had been imagining it all along. Then he felt the cup, and in his trembling hurry, knocked it to the ground. His mother screamed again with renewed vigor.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry," he realized he was babbling. If only the apologizes had been for the cup alone.

"_Call 911!"_ Gabriel shouted, trying to work his dad's mouth open in a daze. He managed to get the spoon in between his dad's lips. "It'll be okay, Dad, I won't let-."

He looked towards the door, and felt a shock ripple through him. Virginia Gray was still clinging to the doorknob. "Mom, what are you doing?!"

"No," she said, screaming through her tears and shaking her head. Her face was screwed up into a horrible face that reminded him of a child.

"Get in there now, or Dad'll die," he said, rather calmly, rather reasonably in his opinion, when he was confronted with the emptiness in her eyes. It scared him more than his father's shaking in his hands. She, in response, hit the floor with the palm of her hand, and her wild sobbing increased. "_Then come hold the spoon, and I'll call!"_ Gabriel yelled.

"Don't scream at me!"

But apparently the fear or repulsion of having to go near her husband encouraged her enough to stumble into the kitchen for the phone. Negative is repelled from negative, and he wasn't sure if…

He grabbed his father's hand (that was much too hot and too cold at the same time), and squeezed it, thinking if he held it long enough, some of his life force would be exchanged and be enough to keep his father here, or that he could just hold on and never let go.

Throughout the time it took for the ambulance to speed through the crowed New York streets, he relived yesterday's fight with crucifying details that slowed to a snail's pace. His own features grew twisted in the memory, like he was the demon in the closet from his youth.

He imagined his father's heart/nerves/whatever practically rotting from what was in his son's face. Daniel Gray had been teetering over the side of the cliff, and the knowledge of his Gabriel's imperfection had pushed over the edge.

They arrived, finally, late, and stole his father away from him, putting him on some cheap and broken stretcher with a squeaky wheel that turned to the side and was too big and bulky for the den. His mother departed with them, wailing like a banshee, and he was left to think his thoughts and notice that the ambulance people had stolen the bed sheets.

Before he knew it, he had opened the window, leaning out to face the busy streets.

"My father," he called out, to nothing and everything.

He waited for the world to stop.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Heroes is the property of Tim Kring and NBC.

Of Hollows and Evermores

Chapter 3

"Aren't you coming down here?" his mother's voice called shrilly through the earpiece of the phone. "It's a flaw of character, not to know, to have to be told."

"I have to run the shop today."

"And miss school? He wouldn't want you to do that; he'd want you near me."

_What can one expect, from a bad person?_

"I want things to be ready for when he comes home."

"He's been asking for you."

He hung up the phone, and went to the shop. Gabriel had heard of criminals returning to the scene, and felt like the door should resist him, and people on the street would stop and think it strange. They would know what he had done.

He had no problem getting in, however, switching the sign over to closed. He laid his head on the desk, not daring to move any of the tools that had been arranged by his father's hands. The phone rang for every five minutes. He figured when it stopped for three, she was trying the home phone. It rang for five hours straight until it stopped.

Gabriel ran to the hospital.

His mother's eyes were completely empty when he found her in the waiting room.

"A mistake," Virginia whispered. "I told you to get here. I told you. A mistake."

"Mother." She flinched away from him, as if he was going to strike her, and cried out. He had to step away, as a nurse looked in his direction accusingly.

"They did something wrong."

"How do you know?"

Her mouth hung open. "From what they've told me! I'm not blind to your father's failings as a human being, I was…he certainly didn't take anything else along with that filthy drink."

He took it in, filtering it to make sure it was correct, and found that he had already known all this before he had walked through the hospital doors. It had been in his father's eyes and in the back of his mind when he had felt the way his father's body shook.

"Which room is he in?"

She pressed her lips together. He had an image of himself shaking her so vividly that his hands twitched of their own accord.

"Room 407," the nurse answered.

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Did you kill your father?"

Everyone—the small child wrapped in a blanket, half asleep, the older white haired woman who had been sobbing herself, and the nursing staff—looked up in unison, eyes wide. He went from hot and cold, from his stomach, to his back, to his neck.

"_What?_"

"That was part of my dream, too."

"This way, sir."

"You sucked the life out of him, and then me. Took everything we had!" she shouted.

"Really, you shouldn't talk too loud in this area," the nurse whispered, frantic.

"Yes," he answered, nodding. "Yes."

He went down to room 407, the nurse at his heels like a white ghost. He looked to his left and heard music. The boom box behind the desk was going a medium level. The janitor bobbed his head along, and the nurse stood at an arm's length, possibly letting his mother's words make her cautious.

"You really shouldn't see this part. We have him on morphine, and he's asleep. I promise, he doesn't feel a thing."

"How do you know that?" Gabriel asked, raising an eyebrow.

"W-well."

"Thanks."

He went in with no expectations, no movie references, or novel references in his mind. Even those wouldn't have prepared him. His father's eyes were half open. He moved closer, ready to beg for forgiveness. Then he noticed there was no one behind those eyes. He reached under the covers to find his father's hand, and noticed the rapidly fading warmth.

There were wires everywhere, lines holding him to life. He bent over the bed, to look closer. That part of him, that clean sanctuary part, saw the absence of the soul quite clearly, yet his heart still ticked away, persistently.

"Are you trying to stay for her?"

He didn't dare inquire about himself. No answer, of course.

"Don't worry. I-I'll take care of mom. It's okay for you to go on."

He checked the monitor. Steady as it could be. Actually, good signs, if it weren't for the obvious evidence to the contrary. He looked again, looking for it. The essence of his father, the soul. Where was it? The breathing hitched, and whined, and he knew that things were running down, and wasn't he supposed to be able to prevent that from happening?!

_Strangle the wire,_ that voice said from the alley.

He bit his lip, trying not to cry because he would never stop, and drowning that horrible voice. His fingers thrummed with no outlet, disgusting, helpless, ugly compulsion, twitching cockroach running its legs in the air, refusing to die, when everything important in the world had died.

Gabriel saw a flicker in the upturned eyes, as brief as a wing of a butterfly in glass. He felt an echo, a tinge of a note from a clock he had not realized he had been counting.

He saw a glimmer of his father, a yellowish golden glimmer, a rather old piece, one that counted warmth and fear in equal quantities. That was only the human half of it. The machinery itself, the gears made no sense, from what he could make of it. It was similar to an image in -(a strange order in a language that had no sounds or letters)- a row mirror upon mirror, each reflecting an infinity that he could not accept, nuances of his father that 'never was' or 'would be'. He checked to see if there was a source of light to make that reflection, but the room had been dimmed, the heads of the lamps bowed down.

He had to look again, from that high that had overcome him in the silence of the white room, had to bring him back to life because he knew how, he was running towards the edge right now, almost-

The line went flat.

"You know," his mother said thoughtfully outside the door of their home. She was dressed in black with one of those hats on he had actually seen in the movies. "I never noticed you look so much like your father before."

She hadn't mentioned her dream or her words. It was almost as if she had never been the one to speak them at all. He hurried to open the door for her, and she clutched his arm, smiling like a young girl who had attended a funeral of a stranger out of kindness. The funeral had been full of people Gabriel had never met. In fact, at first, he wondered if he and his mother had wandered into the wrong glass-stained room. His grandparents came, he was told. He had to take his mother's word for it, since he himself had never laid eyes on them.

As he counted the red roses surrounding the casket, he entertained a thought of who would come to his funeral. The number was much scarcer.

"I'm sorry, Gabriel. I am. You must be so sad."

"We both are," he insisted, watching her hurry into the kitchen.

"Are you hungry? You're practically skin and bones."

His stomach threatened to revolt suddenly, his head dizzy, once more almost as bad as being blindfolded. He reached out, searching for the couch, and fell on it. His mother was bumping plates together in a flurry of liveliness.

"I'm worried about you. You're much too solemn. Just think of where your father is now. You should be happy, really. I envy him."

_Just think, your father can finally see you for what you are... Kind of pointless to hide, right? _

His part of the whole ability had left him. Temporarily or for the rest of his life? The voice that sometimes echoed with the ability had not left. It had become stronger. He allowed this because it made him suffer, and he deserved to suffer. It gave him comfort in a way his mother's food could not.

"It's like we gave a big party for him, isn't it?" He heard the sounds of the knife against the plate, cutting something up.

"I told you, I don't feel like eating," he said again, closing his eyes.

"Then what shall we do?"

He felt her, rather than saw her, lean against the doorframe. "The money situation, I think…"

"Don't mention money at a time like this. It's filthy. Really, what's been on your mind? Think we have a boat load of saving, several wills in the making? The only reason he was buried at all was because my parents were especially eager to send him off."

"Mother, please."

"Well, it's true. I don't plan to lie for you. You're a big boy."

"What will you do when I go off to college?" he asked.

"What? What did you say?"

Gabriel turned around. His mother looked as if he had uttered the foulest swear word known to man.

"You…you think of leaving me, now, you…" She put her fluttering hand to her mouth. "You, at a big college with _girls_ in slutty _nothings,_ and me, a pauper, on the street, living in a box near the beggars?"

And that was it. It had confirmed what he had already suspected. That God had directed his life, showing him the tunnel where he was to walk through, and with no way to go back.

"No, never," he surrendered to the trap, yielding his neck without hesitation. "I was thinking out loud."

"Keep those sorts of thoughts to yourself! I do want you to go to school, only at a later time…"

He nodded, thinking of the glass windows from the church. "I'll drop out tomorrow."

"I do want to sell some things," she said happily, turning back into a youthful girl instead of a woman. "To get us by. Those old curtains for example, and his suits. I mean, your clothes, since it's not longer appropriate. Your father has plenty of old clothes that can be reused. I don't have to buy that many groceries. And this bed?"

She went into the bedroom, and didn't come out. There was a moment where he thought she had passed out, and he was too tired to get up and check.

"It's still big enough for two."

He clutched his hands together. "I s-should go to the shop, again, to make sure everyone knows, his customer list, to know it-it's still open."

"Gabriel?"

Her voice came closer, almost out of the bedroom, but by that time, he had thrown himself out of the door.

She didn't mean that. She's upset, she's in shock, and who would think like that about their mother, their own mother, mentioning a simple observation about bed size?

_You do, choir boy. Sure, she's grieving, but why grieve for someone who's cold in the grave when there's someone who can keep her warm? _

"I'm going to hell," he rasped out, feeling like tearing his hair out, tearing that voice out of his head. He believed it, too. That was worse.

_Ah, you can run, and you can hide, but you'll have to come home eventually. _

Nearly retching, he waved at a taxi, and the panic on his face made the car speed by him. He had the premonition that his mother was running down the steps to stop him; it sent him running down the sideway. He thought of running away. It would kill her, as surely as a knife through the heart.

Gabriel stopped running and accepted his fate. He reached the shop; he planned not to come home that night. The bad part of him was right, though.

That very bad part. He surrendered himself to the shop, hoping it would cleanse him or protect him. From the world, or the world from him. His mother had been speaking economically, and there was something very wrong with him. He would lock himself in the shop, and pay for the life he had taken by giving up his own.

He watched the people through the windows (who never looked in, never ever, in the past nor in the future), and realized he was all alone, and he had done it to himself, but they have helped him put the gun to his head and supplied him with the bullets. They were wicked, much more so than him, part of a hive that eat the weakest of them.

The sunlight glanced through the window, putting light among the golden glimmers, and he felt a veil of peace. Being their collective victim made him fundamentally better. They were afraid of him because he could be better. Saints had been stoned, after all, for being misunderstood by the muddle of human beings. Rather like his encounter with McGregor, he thought, beaming to himself.

And best of all, saints and philosophers went for solitude, to shed the blinders put onto them by the weak human system. Gabriel decided then, that the parts of the watches would not just be his sanctuary. They would become his willing crucifixion.

He crucified himself for seven years, not to be missed, until _that person_ came along after all, looking for him.

When Gabriel actually met Brian Davis, he finally understood why nature abhors a vacuum. So it was a surprise to see exactly what was buried underneath the pounds of flesh held together by a sweaty business suit.

He would have never believed that anything like this could happen in this day and time. The age of miracles had been over, and though he had always asked his mother why water didn't turn into blood or angels of death roam the streets, he never thought it could really happen, and how it could cut the normal half of your life away like scissors.

That's when the name happened. If it could be called happening at all. He had looked at that watch for seven years. The very minute it started to tick was when Davis walked into the door, and when the divine takes the time to point your true name out to you, you didn't dare to choose another name. The name was as natural as welcoming back an old friend after a very long absence, and as important as a ward against the consuming effect of what was _actually_ happening, least the sight burn Gabriel's mind, like seeing the true divine form of a god had burned Semile's body.

In half it was for the beautiful thing he was witnessing. In the other half, it was the bond this unveiling (dirty secret, in Davis's mind) had created between the two men. As with his confiding to Suresh, it felt like they were the only two humans in the world.

"I don't know what this is, or who I could hurt. I don't want it." Pleading like a dog.

The pattern, the mirror that had reflected his own life, the hand that guided Chandra to him, became blindingly clear. This weak shell of a man was like looking into a mirror.

"You're broken," he murmured, spell-bound by the beauty of the design and repulsed by the results on its host.

Brian's power was eating him from the inside out. Inside his brain, inside the eyes, where he had seen his own father's soul depart, was a snag. The miraculous power was leeching off Davis's moods, his very inability and reluctance to take control only twisted it further down. It was weak, not properly placed at the ideal location, and so the gift was hitching along towards death.

And Davis had hurt someone already. A friend or family member or bully had been thrown up against a wall and had ended up with a broken spine. Possibly when he was a child, at which point he started to lock himself up in his room, when he started to eat to fuel his depression and wish for the ground to swallow him whole and bury him.

Sylar knew because he saw it in the sideways glance, and the man's approach. Davis had given this information up openly. His body language had been open, so open, yielding his neck.

He was exhilarated, by the closeness, by the inclusiveness, by the exclusiveness, and most of all, by the peak. It was horrifying, being out of the safe, embracing ignorance, that there was life beyond the womb of normalcy.

His father had to kill himself to make sure that the scales would fall from his son's eyes at precisely the right time. No, his father was made to kill himself by that hand. How on earth would he have met Suresh if Daniel Gray had still been breathing? His mind raced, tracing the steps as Davis looked down at the book in his hand, child-like and still yielding. To lead him to this step, and this step was covered in blood, from his father's sacrifice. But if there had been a sacrifice made, to prepare for this moment of rebirth, then it was a clean slate because God had chosen him to make a tapestry of the imperfect gifts into something beyond this world.

To save humanity from itself and the eventual wind-down.

Yes. His fingers thrummed. The hands had guided him here, through the tunnel, and there was only forward.

"Don't worry, Brian," he soothed. "I'll fix it. It's an evolutionary imperative."

The man felt no pain, of this he was sure. The means to the end was much better than morphine, most likely.

"Do this in remembrance of me," Sylar muttered, and that's what he did.

After the illicit blade-running sensation of _anyone could look in the window and see_, Sylar was methodical.

He dragged the body back into the corner and moped up the blood. It was peaceful, and he was sluggish after it, removed. He hummed to himself as he worked, thinking of what to do next. He decided to feed the poor dogs that always lurked in the alleyway, just pictures of skin and bones.

He tested his new power on the body of its previous owner. The telekinesis gave the sensation of casting a spider web across any object, connecting with that object, and the pull hurt at first, then was pleasurable. The little dogs in the alley lapped up their meal with greedy intensity. It took some time, since some body parts, especially the tongue apparently, are tough to chew through. Brian would be all over New York city, inside homes that wouldn't have taken the man in, nestled right at the feet and cradles of the dog's owners.

It was poetic justice, with Brian so very dead and him so very alive. What he didn't care for, as he stood framed in the doorway watching the scene in the alley was the alien feeling in his body. It was similar to rubbing a loose tooth with his tongue, only now it was a cadaver's tooth in his head and it wasn't about to leave.

Not that he wanted it to.

Sylar sat by the window, and imagined Suresh's face in the morning. The old man would plead for forgiveness, and oh, how he would refuse. He smiled to himself, thinking of the phone calland saw himself dial the number, a simple 956-4847…

Only that was the wrong number. He paused, frowning down at his hands. It wasn't any number he was familiar with before, but it swam to the top of his mind like it was his social security number. A highly important number printed in emergency red, and it meant something was flying out the window, with the urgency of the last chance to guess the password to your life savings and the bill was to be paid in ten minutes.

It was one of the first couples of breaths in his life, and he was self-indulgent. Sylar jogged to a nearby payphone, and punched in the number, bemused.

It rang for exactly five counts. Then seven more. He leaned against the cool glass, with all the time in the world.

"Hello?"

He was jolted, and a thread raced down his spine, and that cold foreign half-thing in his body gave a sensation of warmth. He closed his eyes, and went searching for the proper word to the emotions of the sensation. There wasn't a word, and it wasn't a crack, it was an abyss

"Hello," he accused.

"...Well, yes?"

"Who am I talking to?"

"…Who were you trying to reach?"

"Brian. Brian Davis? I knew him from school," he said, taking a stab in the dark.

"Oh, Brian moved out some months ago. Do you want his number?"

Sylar hung up, as if the receiver had burnt him, and wiped his hands on his khakis, breathing hard, and with the peaceful feeling dancing in the back of his mind, drilling the hole further and further with something he didn't have and never would. Fear he did have; he was made of it.

"I see says I," he muttered, not here nor there to notice that his fingernails were cutting into his palm.

He screamed when someone banged on the phone booth, the standard industry made business man, pressing his Rolex against the glass window like it was an FBI badge. "Not one of the bums that live in trashcans and booths, are you?"

Smiling, he stepped aside, and made sure he was a good distance away before tipping the booth over with a flick of mental blade. He could appreciate the irony, really. The one who had wanted to end loneliness would never be alone again for a single breath.

To think, this was what he had wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Heroes is the property of Tim Kring and NBC.

Of Hollows and Evermores

Chapter 4

It was better in the morning.

Sylar had the innate sense that most people were merely extensions of himself. The pound of flesh had been the weak part, and he had stoned it when it dared to allow itself within arms reach, and consumed it completely. It wasn't his fault that he had underestimated the root of the ability: it was biological compensation for what was lacking in Brian the Quickerpickerupper. Fundamentally, it was the purest abstract of the host.

Fortunately, he had read lots of books on the subject of transformation; he knew the next step to take.

Chandra was not as receptive to his calling as he would have liked.

"I'm afraid I've already prepared to look in other directions," the man whispered through the crack in the door. As if Sylar was going to hurt him.

"Listen, Dr. Suresh. I'm afraid. I was feeling ill the other day, and now I think I know why. You're the only person who can help me. Just let me show you. Surely, you'd want to see this."

It wasn't a hard card to play to get in the door. This was a man who was all alone in this tiny apartment in a big city halfway around the world from his home. Isolation was the one thing he could understand, along with the scientific self doubt.

The way Chandra had looked at him, performing his miracle, was the first tantalizing hook of a thrill that was much better than sex could ever be. Eyes hanging on his every move, trying to dissect him as if he were the keys to the kingdom, had to be better than any sensation felt by the normal people. There's always a price for everything. It had the allusive now-you-see-me, now-you-don't feeling, only backwards, with the now-you-don't being, oh, every second of his previous life.

_Of course, _he thought to himself,_ seeing the map on the wall, there was the pattern blatantly pointing the way to every possible power in all those lost souls_. _It would be a sin if I didn't follow through with it. _

Then he had Chandra Suresh.

In the weeks to come, Brian Davis's dilapidated face flashed on the television in concerned intervals. The case had moved from an accident to foul play in record time, due to his earlier moment of weakness with the phone.

Sylar never hid the news while he was being endlessly tested, feeling quite at home in the disorganized place.

"You work too hard, you know," he observed, tracing the wires with his eyes that led to the spider-like machine. "You should take a break every once and a while."

His mentor was getting ill too early in the game. He hadn't eaten, from the lack of dishes in the sink or any to-go boxes. He hadn't slept from the pristine bed in the corner. Honestly, it was starting to grate.

"This isn't work," Chandra replied, enthralled by the machine that clicked and displayed number after number on the screen. "Besides, as a human, I'm only using ten percent of my brain at the moment. Plenty of room to spare."

"Good to know," Sylar muttered, crossing his arms. Good old Brian flashed across the screen, looking more puppy-like than ever, and he chuckled under his breath. "Looks like this is one harsh world, doesn't it? Chews them up and spits them out."

"Oh?" At last, a glance. He waited, looking at the ceiling, barely containing his excitement.

"That man. What was that man's name again? It flashed under the screen like it was an advertisement more than a life."

"I think it was Bill, or Brian. Something with a B. They'll repeat it in a moment, don't worry."

And it did.

"Dear…god." There was a rustle of paper, and Suresh was practically digging through his desk, submerged in his search.. He hadn't even remembered the man's name off the top of his head. "It can't be possible, it—it is. Brian Davis."

"He's on the list?"

"Yes, he was. A..after you."

Chandra knew. Sylar frowned, his expression laced with concern. "What a strange coincidence. You don't think he killed himself, do you?"

"Why would he do such a thing?"

"His ability. It could have proven to be more than he could handle."

"Instead of calling, I should have gone over there personally." Chandra's eyes were as wide as a child hearing a scary story.

"Oh, I doubt that would have done much good," he offered. "What was his power, again?"

"I don't recall," Suresh whispered, staring at him with a detached sort of awe. Willing to spread the disease to watch the effects. It was almost anticlimactic. He had wanted an acknowledgment. But it did occur to him how he should have been this man's son.

"Okay," Sylar said, nodding to seal the agreement and settled back in his chair. "How many more test today?"

At the airport, Sylar had expected half the security bells to go off.

He had looked directly into the security guard's eyes, hinting with his thoughts and smirking, and they didn't raise a finger. It was ridiculously mundane, the process of this journey. He would find another way, but the next person on the list was on the opposite side of the country, and he had wanted a true challenge, something out of his area. This time he was determined to look into the eyes of the person he killed.

Besides, the paradoxical gift intrigued him. Cytokinesis in the Windy City.

Obviously God maintained a sense of humor.

The home of David Douglas did not disappoint. This was a wealthy boy, to the most casual of observers. It was in the hills, behinds yards of gates and suicidal twisting roads where only the most fortunate against the possibility of natural disasters dared to drive.

It was as if David had anticipated his arrival, putting up gates with a compulsive need he could not explain. This one would put up a fight.

Sylar crossed the gates easily enough and marched across the finely manicured grass in broad daylight. There were no neighbors to nose about. Ghostly fingertips traced across the nape of his neck, grabbing at him.

"It's not breaking and entering if I've been invited," he said, and slid the glass door open. This was literally a glass house. Only he had not imagined that a house that had no real walls in the front area would be that messy.

Food was the primary offender. Pizza boxes and old microwave able soups with mold growing out of them, to be exact. There was a crucifix on the fireplace, and of that, he was dismissive. As if anyone of this nature had the right to have that on his wall.

There were token pictures of friends, grouped together as if to ward off invasive questions of his single status and his isolation. Wandering into the bathroom (which thankfully did have walls), he turned on the lights.

"Perfect," Sylar muttered, eyeing the remains of white powder that lined the sink, the powder that looked like dandruff but was decidedly not. "All the time it took to get here, and this guy probably doesn't have any brain cells left in his head anyway."

An old gone to seed (and pot) balding athlete was meant to be his next part.

It might have just been him, but this asinine _mistake_ felt like a direct maneuver left behind in plain view, out of pure spite. The kitchen also had walls, and it was here he sought his sanctuary. He could have waited forever, making himself comfortable, watching the sun turn a blind eye.

However, he bewildered by all the personal affects of the man. Unknown to Sylar himself, there was always that comparison. He had thought that special people would be like him. Yet here, there were things that would never ever cross his mind. Posters, for a start, and an instrument had been in the corner of the bedroom. A waterbed, and of course, the drugs. Cards with well-wishes in them on the drawers, and a small plaque of Mayan masks on the walls.

In the freezer above the refrigerator, there had been sculptures made of ice. Some were of animals, one even of a dog. That Sylar understood but others from David's mind, foreign as the cold spot in his mind where Brian was sealed. Then there were the face sculptures. He hated to admit it but they weren't bad. In the left hand corner of the freezer, there was an ice carnival, with a ferris wheel with a red string attached to the front car. Try as he might, he couldn't find a single flaw in the design.

The ghost of this man was hanging everywhere, even though he was not yet dead.

Sylar wondered if he could take that too.

He sat there a long time, in the darkness, as quiet as the dead, until he heard a car pull up. Or rather it swerved up, blaring its arrival to whomever was in the vicinity like a squire announcing the presence of a king. There were several voices laughing under the current of the music.

It was then that Sylar decided he hated the man who had deceived him, showing a false depth compared with Brian the Post-It. The happy voices revolted him, and he had the sudden desire to go out and kill every single one of them who dared to laugh when nothing was funny.

A squabble broke out as someone, most likely Douglas, tumbled out of the car onto the curbside.

"So glad my face broke my fall," David Douglas slurred from outside.

Another burst of pointless hooting and hollering. "Well, now it matches the lower half of you."

"Didn't it already?"

Sylar clenched his fists. There were the gratuitous goodbyes and take cares and see-ya-laters. Douglas would only be able to fulfill one of the three. The door key scratched on hit-and-misses with the lock, and the beer-bellied man staggered in, sounding satisfied at the decimation of his brain cells.

The string of curse words replaced the natural language of this person, as he barked his shin on the table. Sylar supposed the same thing happened every night. Fluorescent lights flooded the room, and David walked right past his guest, fumbling for the refrigerator handle. A few unwanted scratches of pants and the underarms went on, as the delicate decision of what to eat next.

David turned around, beer in hand, and promptly dropped the bottle.

"Good God!" He gasped, and backed up against the counter, his eyes widening.

Sylar smiled and crossed his arms. "That's not too good for your health."

"What, God?" David stuttered, spittle raining from his mouth. It kind of ruined the moment.

"There's no spirit here, but that one," he responded, pointing at the shattered remains on the floor. "Tell me, why do you want to die that way?"

"Listen, if you're looking for trouble, you've found it. You have five minutes to get out of here with your head intact. I've got a gun."

"I know. Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson are in the bedroom, under the mattress. With a candlestick." He laughed.

David had the bright idea to run to a drawer and pull out a knife. This was going well.

"I'm warning you one last time."

"It will be your last time, David. Speaking of which, we don't have much of that, time. I just called the boys in blue."

"…what?" He sounded suspicious.

"The timing's perfect. Right before you came home. They'll get here within fifteen minutes, I assume, depending on if the road is too treacherous. It won't be, the weather's quite nice here."

"You called the police on yourself? What are you, some kind of nut?" He paused. "Well, never mind. I'll keep you here, then, until they get here." Such bravado. Apparently David wanted to play hero.

Sylar stood up and with that electric whim, turned the knife in David's hand.

"You're holding a knife to your own throat, and I'm the nut, huh? That's a colorful point of view."

Near death, he noticed that the eyes always glaze over. It's as if a part of the person is stored away to preserve the sanity on impact. David's eyes were like that, empty at the moment, studying the knife with a detached amazement, sliding over his sanity.

"You're doing this," he stated as a fact, tilting his head like a curious child.

Sylar held up his hands, shrugging. "You see my hands. Empty, right? And nothing up my sleeves, either."

"You're doing it," David insisted.

"Really? It seems to me you're just doing what you always do. Slitting your throat is no different than slowly poisoning yourself. Though you can't scream with a slit throat, I imagine. End results the same."

Sylar moved closer. The man watched him, in a veil of disbelief and abject faith. What was he in David's mind? A god, of course.

"You didn't answer my question. Why do you want to die that way?"

"I don't. I don't want to die."

"Please. You're dead already. To live would be to feel some pain. You're numb to everything. You've run from everything."

So close. He bent forward and whispered in David's ear. "And I hate you for being a part of me."

The knife slashed upwards, suddenly, and Sylar jerked backwards, spared from losing an ear within millimeters.

How? He gaped at the knife still suspended in the air as if it were a lie, held up by strings. But no. David had forged a cold icicle in his hand and held it out in front of him, looking much like those pictures of knights slaying dragons. Sylar had a feeling similar to finding out there was a shark in the swimming pool while in mid-dive. The man was supposed to be drunk.

"All right, cool. Let's split up then."

Suddenly David was charging at him, all those years on the field seeming to reawaken in his muscles. It was too easy to push the man down, once he remembered he had the power to do so.

"I really do wonder how that keeps happening," Sylar observed. "Ghosts maybe? Of the people you stepped on all your life? They are on my side, David, just in case you haven't noticed."

Douglas ran out on half his sentence, so he screamed it after the fleeing man. Yes, this was different from Brian.

_Well, you've already killed your father, so what else do you deserve? You walk too high, too low, swing low, little sissy, choir boy, fix--_

The voice was his father, mother, Richards, but mostly it was him, in a mental blood letting, and all he could do was nod and push himself into the knife of the words, savoring it. He was having a reaction, a stirring, to the struggling, flailing figure ahead of him. More so when the whites of the man's eyes would flash up, hanging on Sylar's every move, and most of all the life that hung on his decision. It was like sex, only better.

David seemed to have taken a trip over his own Laz-E-Boy in the darkness. Good thing his head broke his fall. Or not. Couldn't afford anything getting more damaged than it already was.

"Here, let me help you up," Sylar said, and with a flick of his hand, the large man was suspended in midair, struggling helplessly.

The man's insides were moving much too fast for his liking, he just knew it, and this needed to be put out of his misery.

_Taking the list, checking it twice, finding out who is naughty or nice. _

"So?" Sylar inquired softly, in case dearest David was a mind reader. "Which is it? Because there are only two places you can go from here. One is hot, and one is not too hot."

"P-please, I'll give you what-whatever you want."

"You'd best decide whether you want to ask for forgiveness. If I were you, I'd hurry. Tick tock."

"I didn't do anything to you!" David sobbed, but Sylar could tell by the football memorabilia that David Douglas had in fact done something to him. "Take my damn money, already!"

"Your money can't buy you out of hell," he replied patiently. "The worth of your soul just between you and your maker right now. Unfortunately for you, it doesn't look too promising, and I'm getting impatient."

"Fuck you."

_Well, how disappointing_, Sylar thought.

He had gone in there with the idea of having a good old struggle, to decide who was properly worthy of living, but then now, after having his generosity spurned, well, fuck it, as Douglas himself so elegantly put it.

"Don't worry. I was just kidding."

Sylar waited for the pudgy ex-athlete to relax. Then he added, "Heaven and Hell is for those who die alone. But your soul is going to be part of me as long as I live and breathe, and I plan on doing that for a very long time."

Douglas's eyes opened wide, and of course, Sylar's words were beyond his comprehension—that's where being _nice_ got you. _Oh well_, he decided. _He'll understand soon enough. _

"Now let's see what you're really made of."

It was a regular baptism of blood, spilling over the trash on the floor. Home is where the heart is, but soon, David would have a new home for his heart was Sylar's.

It was done. He was satisfied, and Brian wouldn't have to be so alone anymore. Everyone wins. He wandered into the kitchen again, knowing the police wouldn't know until the morning. Strange, how people change at a word. True, he was David's shadow as much as David was his. David was a liar who even went to the lengths to be so sober as to pretend he was drunk.

Sylar washed his hands, though they were clean, and contemplated the fact that he should probably ask more questions of the next component. It was then that he heard the noise. The scuttling noise in the den.

"Like the number," he assured himself, wiping his hands on the dishtowel. "A remaining echo, is all." He didn't want to look to feel like a fool, looking at nothing. Instead he looked to the closet in the den, which was in his eye sight. It was open. Wide open.

When he had closed it himself, before David got home.

He froze, holding the dripping towel, and staring, all eyes. The shuffling sound continued, as if something was dragging itself across the carpet.

"Douglas?" he asked, fighting the words to get past his tongue, which seemed to have grown in his mouth. The man was as dead as dead could be, already a cold part of him, but dear God, that could be the only thing. "…David?"

He had a telekinetic ability, coupled with cytokinesis. It was similar to having a gun against a god. Something bumped against a discarded box, and that was it. He regained himself, and pulled on the body with his mind, dragging it himself. It bumped its arms against the door jam, limbs twitching against the tile, the open skull accusing.

"You want to move?! Then move, damn you!"

With a twitch, the body was propelled through the air and crashed through the glass wall.

"ONLY I GET TO TELL YOU WHEN!"

Somewhere, a dog barked. He threw the towel down. The body didn't stir outside on the grass. Of course, it wasn't grass that he heard next. Still the carpet. Still in the next room. Sylar did the only thing he could think to do.

He ran.

Sylar left Douglas's body hanging from the local highschool's goal-post, with the word dog etched in the man's tongue.

On the flight home, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Depending on which way it was read, it would either highly illuminating or thoroughly confusing. The flight was pleasant. He had time to think things through, in the light and among others. Weak others, but still others.

Sylar had formulated an explanation for the sounds. During his euphoria, he had forgotten about good old Brian. Brian had opened the closet door and had moved the pizza boxes across the rug while his friend was distracted. A nice trick.

It would never happen again, Sylar decided. Concerning the death itself, his plan was for it to make the papers by that night, so Chandra could see and suspect. And react, finally. To top it off, maybe the FBI would get involved.

By the time he got home, Sylar had conducted a whole staged investigation in his head. It would be on CNN constantly, in the little red blinking letters, and everyone would want to know, who it was, what did it mean. They'd be talking about him twenty-four hours a day. They wouldn't let their kids out of their sight. There would be police cars escorting school buses and enforced curfews on the street. There would be copycats, pale imitations of himself.

When it came to light that it was oh so much more than a mundane human doing this, there would be lamb's blood on the doorsteps.

He was in such a good mood that he was laughing out loud as he passed the landlady. As her look, he waved. She didn't wave back, but that was all right. It was a hard and pointless existence she had, and probably she'd endure for several more years.

The only clink in the armor of his joie de vivre was that David was silent. Cold, silent, and watching. No memories, no feelings, no random faces and dates. Sylar supposed it made sense for his power to reflect his nature. He thought nothing of it and decided to sleep for the first time in days. David would be on the news but it would be one of many broadcasts.

Yes, he felt silly when he checked the closet door twice before he lay down. Even more so when he stared at it, daring it to open. It was just that he was quite alone again. He picked up David's cell phone he had borrowed, knowing it was stupid, dumb, suicidal, and all things weak, but he called Brian's mother again, keeping his eyes on the door.

"Yes?"

"You sound tired. A bit stressed out."

Her breathing was soothing. He relaxed, closing his eyes.

"I heard—well, read really—that stress is primarily caused by this biological tissue and their viscoelastic properties. I would suggest a valium, or a sleeping agent, Linda."

"…It's you, isn't it? The one who killed my baby boy."

He rolled his eyes. "You have my sympathies. The paperwork must be a killer. Erasing the social security number alone is -."

"Why?"

"Because it can go on for weeks. Death is a business, as I'm sure you're finding out."

"That's not what I meant!" she screamed into the phone.

"I know."

He looked at the ceiling, half way asleep.

"Have you lost someone close to you? You seem to know quite a bit about…the stuff afterwards."

"No one close to me. Besides, I consider it gaining ground rather than losing it. All a matter of perspective. You're young enough to have another, and trust me, you're in need of a pick me up pity fuck."

She gasped. "How. How-how dare yo-?"

"Please do, have another. It seems you push out the right type of kid to meet my particular tastes."

At first, he thought she was laughing, and it pleased him. But it turned out to be something else.

"Don't cry, Linda. Remember, when you cry, you can't stop."

He hung up.

Sylar had been considering sharing some of the memories of Brian's childhood with her, but it seemed he had done enough for one night. Sweet Linda with an empty casket in the ground… Her breathing had calmed him down, along with her scent at the back of his mind. Calmed him down enough to rest. As he fell asleep, he did regret that he hadn't left a piece of Brian behind for his mother's sake.

He woke up to see an eyeless moon white face next to his own face, pressed against him, and he screamed, thrashing in his covers madly, pinned down by them. He clawed his way to freedom, and fell towards the light switch, feeling it was right on his heels, whatever the hell it was.

In the light, it turned out to be one of his mother's mannequin heads. He trembled near the doorway and tried to squeeze himself into a corner. Again, while he had been asleep, unwary.

"Then I can't sleep," he told himself, rationally. His voice was quite high pitched. "That's all there is to it. I can't…"

He looked at the closet door. Which is where the mannequin would have had to have come from, but it was closed shut. The light was on though, and he hadn't, he really hadn't…

Something moved.

Out of the corner of his eye. He spun around to catch it, fully exposed, but he only saw a fragment of its ribs. It was a dead thing, and it had been dead for a very long time.

"Puh," was all he could utter in defense.

Sylar moved his hand and the lights came on in his apartment, every single last switch. There was nothing. He fell to his knees, looking at his hands. He remembered a show he had watched, all the time, the discovery channel, and it had this one program about a wasp that was so clever it laid eggs in the body of a spider. The spider would continue on its way, and when the time came for the eggs to hatch, the larvae devoured the spider from the inside.

He ran into the next room, wild, out of himself, and things were crashing all around him, due to his powers, pulling the whole damn place down on top of him. He ducked, and turned, and everything hadn't moved, not an inch.

"Oh God, what is happening to me?"

He pushed the bookcase aside, and found the compartment, the extra room he had kept a secret for his own knowledge. Only special people had secret rooms, and he had liked knowing when others hadn't a clue, but oh God, not this. Never this.

What if that thing was a demon? Outside of the cold and himself? Not possible, but supposedly he himself was possible, what if it had come for him? He tried to pray but the words wouldn't come. It was as if the thing in the next room, always around the bend, was blocking his words.

Sylar tore apart that room for real, looking and searching until he found the old cans of paint he had never gotten to, never cared about, but he needed something to spell this hell out of himself. In the end, the paint wasn't enough, not nearly enough, so he made the cuts on his body, for more.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Heroes is the property of Tim Kring and NBC

Disclaimer: Heroes is the property of Tim Kring and NBC.

Of Hollows and Evermores

Chapter 5

"Chandra!"

Sylar had run there, of all places, but it was the only place he had to turn to. The smug man would dispel the very devil away with his skepticism. He banged on the door with his fists.

"Come on, I see the light under the door. You can't ignore me forever."

The door across the hall opened instead, and he jumped a foot in the air. A pair of dark brown eyes peered out at him.

"And we have company," he announced, scowling at the girl. Chandra appeared, opening the door finally.

"Is everything all right, professor?" the girl inquired. As if there was something she could do about it.

"Yes…" Suresh answered, studying Sylar carefully. "This is Gabr-."

"None of your concern," he interrupted, showing her his red hands and grinning. At her look, he pushed his way past Suresh, into the safety of the apartment. The girl might be something else, for all he knew.

Chandra closed the door shortly after, speaking to the girl about having some sort of experience with medicine. Suresh took one look at Sylar's hands and seemed to channel a serpent.

"_What have you done?"_ he hissed out.

"Painted my wall. Put it off for two whole years, and tonight I was suddenly in the mood."

He had spotted the litter of bottles on the desk. That explained why Suresh had ignored him for so long, leaving him alone in the dark hallway, and had almost given that nosy little bitch his name.

"So, who's the neighborhood watch dog?"

"_That_ is a girl who is trying to get a degree, and probably doesn't appreciate getting woken up at three in the morning."

His father had practically attacked the desk, trying to cover up the evidence in a failingly off-hand sort of way.

"It's three?" Looking at his watch, he found it was. "_Oh."_

"Yes, oh."

"In India, they usually get drunk at three in the morning, then? Evens out the karma without the sutra?" he replied, feeling absolutely lame. _Take that, then, you self-righteous, smug bastard._

"Well, we certainly don't run around like a fiend from hell with a dark red, clotting substance on our hands and expect people to open the door to us, let me tell you."

They glared at each other and then burst out laughing. It was an intense relief, and he was so thankful.

"Point taken."

"You caught me at my lowest, admittedly. Today would be my daughter's birthday."

"So you can't celebrate in person. I've found a phone call can really make people closer, despite the distance."

"'Would be', Gabriel."

Now, he felt like a fool. "I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."

"And I led you in that direction, anyway."

"Here, let me help you." He went to the desk and gathered all the bottles, putting them in the trash bag and carrying them into the kitchen, Chandra wandering behind him. "Do you mind if I use your sink?"

"Not at all. Anything that's mine is yours."

Suresh would see the scars on his hands if he cleaned up, but what else would be expected of him, and the paint burned terribly. It was a good sort of pain, but he had had his fill.

"Is that really paint?"

"You're a famed geneticist. You of all people could tell the difference from Original Cinnamon Swirl and blood."

"When it's in a vial, not when it's…I can tell now that the light is on it. I can't imagine what my poor neighbor thinks."

"She shouldn't have been looking in the first place. Sometimes you get what you are looking for, right?"

"Indeed."

"You look really bad." He paused, then hurried on awkwardly. "I meant, upset. You shouldn't be alone to…this morning."

"Are you psychic as well as telekinetic?"

"Not yet. I'm working on it, through."

"Well. All right. I could use the company."

To his horror, Suresh retrieved even more alcohol from the cabinet. "I don't drink."

"More for me. Actually, it was for me in the first place. Saves us the awkward moment."

Sylar took a seat by the scattered desk and waited for the man to collect his seemingly endless supply of wine. "You didn't have to tell me, by the way."

"Hmm?"

"That you don't drink."

"Now who's psychic?"

"One doesn't have to be a mind reader to know what was written all over your face when you walked in."

"Tell me. Was I a boring read?" When he asked, he feared the answer after Chandra's hesitation.

"Not exactly. Alcohol, for whatever the reason, scares you, doesn't it? Or I should say, what it represents scares you."

"And what is that?"

"The irony is that in church services Christians drink it every Sunday."

"That's grape juice," he muttered.

"What?"

"In the cup," Sylar clarified, mimicking the gesture with his hand. "It's grape fruit juice, not wine."

"Well! There goes my reason for converting."

He couldn't help but smile slightly. Yes, this was the right place to go. Chandra settled down in the chair across from him, balancing three cups in his hands.

"You have the look of a man who has the inclination for a possible…addiction, and knows it. Good for you, cheers to your self awareness."

To this, he was speechless. He tried to laugh again, but it came out as a wheezy cough.

"This substance does ruin lives. Fortunately, I have the benefit of ruining my own exclusively. Something that will always welcome me with open arms."

"Um, it's just here and there, though…"

Suresh nodded, forcing a smile. "And you? What brings you here at this hour? I am happy, I truly am, but there had to have been a reason."

"Hold on." He went to the door and checked out the peep hole. The girl was not eavesdropping. But he had heard the door to the apartment right next to them slam. Odd timing. "That girl. When did she move in here? Be honest, Chandra."

"You mean Eden."

"Her name is Eden?!"

"Now, now. Eden is a good thing, or so I thought. Paradise, correct? She moved in a week ago. She's a nice girl."

"And she's dressed nice too."

Chandra stared at him, bewildered. "Yes?"

"A girl who seems dressed to the hilt picks this place, farthest away from the campus, to live? Why not a dorm which she could to all appearances easily afford? Besides, she's too old."

"She's going back for her degree," Suresh protested defensively.

"At least dress for the part if you're going to play it," Sylar informed the wall and the ears behind it.

"Gabriel. What happened tonight to make you…"

"What, realistic? Your research is valuable. People would kill you in a second to get it. There, I'm sorry to say it like that, especially today, but it's true. We should move it somewhere else."

"And you propose tonight, I imagine? Because you are in the mood."

"Yes. Yes, right now, together."

"You'd have to do it alone."

"…I'm trying to do what is best for you, Chandra. It would be easier if you didn't complicate things."

"Did someone speak to you about the research? Is that was this is about?"

"No. Of course not, it's—it's this thing. All of it." He placed a hand on his forehead, trying to keep it together.

"Stop talking to plaster, sit down, and tell me. Confide in me, I'm here to help you. I have no one to tell it to anyway."

"That's comforting."

"No one I would want to tell."

He sat down, and crossed and uncrossed his legs. "I'm seeing things. I'm hearing things that aren't there. For starters."

"You believe that is a side-effect from your abilities?"

"I don't know. Yes, I do. I woke up to a horrible face against my face, and it was my mother's mannequin head. It definitely wasn't there when I went to sleep," here a weak laugh did bubble out of him "and then it was there when I woke up." He spread his hands apart in a 'what can you do' gesture.

"Like most supernatural things, this one too has a scientific root. Your powers moved the mannequin in your sleep, an unconscious twitch. And that is not what you wanted to hear."

He bit his lip.

"This early in the development of the ability, it is not uncommon for some control iss-."

"My control is perfect," he snapped.

"Apparently it isn't. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"You are not. Getting. It. I saw something in my apartment, all right. It was a dead, rotting corpse. And it was strolling around in my den."

"…Now that is unusual."

Sylar gaped at him, leaning forward in his chair. "That's all you have to say?"

"How do you want me to respond?"

"I want you to care. That's all I want, a little sympathy."

"It does sound like a horrible nightmare. I am sorry about that."

"It wasn't a nightmare," he growled in his throat. His hands clutched the arm rests.

"Is this walking corpse still there, doing laps? Can I go see it myself? For that is something I would dearly like to witness."

He felt slapped hard across the face, and settled back in the chair, and for all of his willpower, could not hide that pain. He settled for covering his mouth, in apparent repulsion.

"I came here for help, and you mock me."

"Why would a corpse be in your apartment to be in the position to spring to life, Gabriel? That's the real question."

He was going to be sick on the spot. After all his hints and games, Sylar suddenly discovered that he hadn't wanted Chandra to know, not really. It was all about being smarter. His eyes roved to the empty space in the center of the room.

"Your TV is gone."

"Too many distractions."

"I'm really not feeling well. Um, really." Sylar tried to get up, but dizziness and weakness shot that idea down. For such unstable feelings, they had good aim.

He started when Suresh patted his knee lightly. "Such a symbol in a dream would mean a transformation is taking place in your life. Your dreams reflect your reality, and your reality reflects your dreams. It's tricky to separate them. Sometimes they are the same thing, in a matter of perspective and importance."

"Transformation?" he whispered, peering through his fingers and clinging to the word like a drowning man would to a submarine, ready for the inevitable submersion but willing to draw it out.

Chandra nodded. "I shouldn't have been so callous. I can not understand what you are going through, try as I might."

"I can't go home," Sylar informed him, unnecessarily.

"Stay as long as you need to." He paused, looking solemn. "You do realize that if something monstrous actually does squeeze under the doorjamb, it's every man for himself."

He jerked his head up in dismay. Suresh laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. All he could muster was a weak and real smile.

The frail man wouldn't be much help against such an ebbing force that was bigger than the both of them. However, it was better than being alone should it come after him again. Besides, it would naturally go for the weaker one of the two.

* * *

Sylar suspected that the old blanket offered so freely was an actual, true-blue, no-nonsense horse blanket.

The moldy green couch that was to be his bed smelled terrible, like old man and porridge. It was the most comfortable thing he had ever reclined on, a siren call to beleaguered backs everywhere.

He did feel like a bug in the proverbial rug, though, curled up with the horse/camel/whatever blanket under his chin (though a camel would need two blankets, possibly). He couldn't tell if he liked it or not.

"Would you like a sleep aid?"

Chandra asked this after nine nights—and days— of wakefulness. Timely as always. The experience was memorable, with his mind playing vicious tricks in little blurbs of illogical lights. A virtual Christmas tree of delirium in which he could hardly keep track of what he was saying or had said or had planned on saying.

"You plan to knock my lights out?"

"Medicinal sleep aid. A glass of water versus a bowl of punch, so to speak."

Suresh was getting worse with his jokes. That only made him more amusing.

"You wouldn't leave, if I were to fall asleep. Step out for a sandwich, you know."

"Of course not. I detest bread." Chandra smiled. "I'm not going anywhere. I have a lot of work to do."

"I'm not sure, if I, you know. Talk in my sleep. I may be a sleep talker, or a mouth breather, or something."

"You don't know?"

"No one has ever been in the know to tell me. It's like a forest, no, tree falling in said coniferous forest. If no one happens to hear it, or non-happens, and I'm leaving out the intentionally part or if the man/woman in question is deaf or has phony, I mean, earphones on, did it really happen at all?"

"Do you want me to put on some earphones? Eden dropped them by for me on her second day here."

"Yes. So I won't feel like a burden."

The sleep aid was an unidentifiable pill, but Sylar trusted the fact that Chandra wouldn't make a move that may damage his precious research. Mutual benefits, sharing the same artery, they were blood brothers now. While he was sleeping, which he would have to, someone had to watch.

"It will numb the pain, too."

At his expression, Chandra laughed. "I kid, I kid. What a literal mind you have." It vaguely reminded him of the big bad wolf from the stories his mother read him about the promiscuous Tor Red Riding Hood. Not happen, helping, or along that linebacker. Thinking was painful, and the sleep aid was pretty much instantaneous, dragging him down by his heels in cement blocks.

"Pain? Um, Dr. Suresh. When you say that, it's kind of creepy."

"Rest for heaven's sake."

And he had to. No choice. Committed. If there was anything he knew was that once something was done, it could not be undone.

In the haze of the painful sinking into nothing-like, he was undone, which means that he wasn't nearly finished yet.

The killing of his extensions continued during his stay with Chandra.

Eventually, the newspaper was cancelled. Sylar did journey back to his apartment, in small steps in the daylight. He always returned to Chandra, for the tests and the hints. If such a man as Chandra allowed his actions, then they must be just. For the sake of the greater good of the world.

The dead thing that hid in his shadow was a hint of what was to come. Wasn't it written that the dead would walk near the end of the world? It was a sign, and he had been too weak to see it. Admittedly, he liked to hate himself. It purged the weakness, the longer he killed those abominations of extensions. The more he purged, the clearer his vision was of what it meant. He had to continue the work to become the pillar of the world.

It wasn't about how the souls had begun to grow and fill any fear and loneliness he had previously had, replacing his lack of memories and enjoyments with a convenient standby. That the eyes, the windows of the soul, shining on him, showing him that glimpse of that ebbing light, gave him an euphoria so strong it took hours to ride it down, and ride it down hard. The crash was half the fun because from there, he could only go one way, in a stairway to perfection.

Chandra turned to the glass more often. That side of him which baptized him in martyrdom was only too glad to point out that he had driven not one, but two fathers to drink.

It worried at him with a childish pride and awe of the grotesque. Then it just worried him.

After the third death, things had changed between them and yet everything was the same.

"My son, you see…I left things off in a bad way," Suresh confided, more to himself. It was personal, invasive, and he enjoyed being exposed. Sylar was never sure if he wanted reaffirmation or mental castration. The only requirement was the necessary element of pain. Suresh was unlucky. He was chosen as a means to an end, and couldn't have any shadow to vanquish or absorb to become whole again. However, Sylar was quick to be of help.

"But isn't that the natural way of things?"

Chandra looked at him, groping and grasping for understanding as ever, but he didn't mind. He leaned back in his chair, and waited.

"I don't quite follow."

"For the next generation to surpass the older one in order to supply the necessary change to keep things running."

"Ah, yes. We are all in a state of dying, aren't we?" the older man said.

"Some of us, yes."

"I didn't mean to give you a false hope of immortality. When I say evolution, I mean humankind as a collective group."

"Have you ever thought that perhaps, death is just acceptance. I mean, think of it. The Deists thought of God as the Great Watchmaker. He knew the trick to how it worked. Do you think the idea of death is just his way of using parts for his own gain, to prolong his existence? What if someone else gained a similar understanding?"

Suresh laughed and slapped the arm of his chair. Always laughing. A serious dour man to everyone but to 'Gabriel'. It reeked of duplicity. Which one was the real Suresh? The one who never let himself off the hook in his heart, or the one who laughed simply because Sylar hated anyone who laughed, excluding himself.

"I-I'm sorry," Sylar said stiffly. "I know your beliefs probably conflict with my own. It was thoughtless of me."

"Oh, no offense taken, my friend. It's just…" Suresh paused, his smile slowly fading. "You're quite serious, aren't you?"

"Yes. Of course I am. Do you even realize the scope of your own work? These are super humans. There are people like me out there who won't die no matter what you did, or they can read your very thoughts. They could read your thoughts, in the brain, where you say there is a soul."

"Well, naturally, the idea of religion may change to adapt to these changes. But they are still human. That is my greatest fear. That is why I refused to allow my son to get involved with my work. As a species, we may not be ready for the responsibilities that come with such abilities."

"Human frailty. Unworthiness should be avoided by all means necessary," he muttered. "We are on the exact same page, you and I. It's amazing, really, how this clicks so perfectly."

"I'm not sure we are even in the same library," Suresh responded dryly. At Sylar's expression, he spoke in a softer voice. "It's all right, I can't expect everyone to share my opinions. I'm actually quite used to it. I lost my daughter, as you know. From a genetic mutation."

"Wait, your daughter was special?"

"She was special. In a very detrimental way. She was ill, and dying from…so much pain. And I could do nothing. It made me wonder—if you don't mind me saying this, if there was anything more out there. What kind of force would take a child and make them…suffer so. But that was what started my research, that. I want to prevent pain, Gabriel. I want to save others that heart ache."

"Or did you just not want to feel. You wanted something reliable, something that wouldn't hurt you. Something that made sense. I can understand that."

"I…I suppose that's true."

"That just proves my point though. The pattern is so clear. Your daughter was the mechanism which triggered yo-."

"A mechanism?" Chandra roared suddenly, and Sylar looked up in bewilderment, wondering _What this time? What was wrong this time?_ "You…you would go as far to relate my daughter's death to one of your watch pieces?"

He was never so illogical about his fragile son. There was something more here.

"How did you try to stop it, then? Did you not know how?"

"I did. Do you think me a fool?! It was just too late to get the antibodies—a month too late!"

_Antibodies…_Then it clicked. Month. Tides. Late.

"Your son."

Chandra froze. Sylar stood up.

"Your unwanted son. He was the means to an end. Or should I say the means to a dead end?"

"How dare you," Chandra whispered, his eyes shocked and stunned, and wasn't he just like a dog even now.

"How dare you," he said back, calmly putting his hands in his pockets. "Your son was an antibody factory. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more. Oh, I'm sure when you buried her, or cremated her, or did whatever suited your fancy, buried her under the rug, doctored her files so you wouldn't be the laughing stock of your beloved university….I'm sure you were the role model of the perfect father."

He circled the man, watching him, and counting the shallow breaths. The shakes of the body, shaking out the impurities in his sweat and demons. Sylar wondered how he could be thanked after it was all said and done.

"But hey, you were right," he said, placing a hand on the distressed man's shoulder and making him start. "You did what you had to do. You put the pieces together. You were just too late."

He shrugged sympathetically.

"I think you should leave now, Gabriel."

"Leave?" Sylar inquired, feeling the edge of that thing that waited behind the bend raced down his spine and into his heart that had an Achilles heel in the manner of being open, and taken, and that no one would ever in the seven hells of never notice. Completely blinked out.

But yet, here was the real key to Chandra Suresh. Behind all that cold and burning rationalism, he was just dying to be a martyr. To deny and harm himself beyond repair. And Sylar couldn't help himself. He had to fix it. He dropped to his knees besides the man who was sitting in that pathetic chair like a broken rag doll and clasped his hands.

"I'm sorry, but not now. I can't leave you like this."

"You are just afraid for yourself. You see my fears as your own, and that is a very big mistake. As for me, you've done quite enough." He pretended not to notice the man pulling away. They would be finished when Sylar himself decided the moment. The old man was driving himself mad, and he, Sylar, was the only one who could save him.

"I just wanted to say that you shouldn't blame yourself. It was a sign. You know that. It was a sign to come and find me. A little girl died so you could find me, and the others. Do you want to have let Shanti die in vain?"

"I…I didn't want her to go," Suresh said. "That's all I wanted."

"But your son. He's important to you. You care for him."

"I do. Very much so. Yet-."

"You can't look at him without seeing her."

"He's following in my footsteps. He's intelligent, hardworking. He just doesn't have what it takes to do what is necessary. His nature is too naïve, too gentle."

"And the work is yours. Yours alone. It's okay to admit it. Think of all the time spent, all the sacrifices made, all for what? "

"The work is something I must do for my peace of mind. I deserve it, better or worse. My son just looks to it as a bridge to me.

"Yes," he whispered. "All that suffering, for someone to come in through the back door, and take it all for themselves. That's what your son wants, Chandra. Not to be close to you. His goal is to be you."

The old man's breathing hastened now to a frightening hitch. He believed now, he saw it as clearly as Sylar did.

"Once he became you, what use would you be to anyone? Those who would have integrated with you would have consumed you. Everyone wants to be a part of the greater whole. We can help them there, together, starting with your list. However, those who don't understand, those like your own child…You had to tear down those bridges, in order to be better."

"Like you did."

"I…I never had the opportunity to tear away. I was always an extension of someone else. Don't you see how fortunate you are. I even believe God is lonely but that is because it comes with the responsibility. You were given pain so all your weakness would melt away."

He stood up, feeling the man's soul cling weakly to him, and he could be merciful through being cruel.

"The only true way to heaven is through hell, don't you know? I'm sure you have a similar concept in your belief system. It's all around the world. Even in the absence of religion, there is the instinct, written in the genetic code for the basic human. It takes a special few to actually hold the keys in their hand."

"I'm so sorry…"

"It's all right. I forgive, and I forget, and I can do both in this instance."

"That I found you."

Sylar froze, mouth still hanging open in mid speech. _"What?"_

"This may truly be an act of something greater. But you are a human. What is happening to you has happened to worms and insects, roaches and maggots, if you keep that in mind. What is happening to you is happening to others around the globe. But you, and perhaps you alone, are the one who is letting your ability rule you, and you like it, because it is an excuse."

"…How long has this great deduction been on your mind?"

"Since the first time you killed someone."

"I did not kill anyone, Suresh. You, on the other hand…well, yes, you've been stacking them up."

"Excuse me?"

Sylar bent down, deceptively, intimately close, and looked his former father in the eyes. "Like you said, you came to me. You came to me first. You opened this door for me, and slammed it shut. And WHATEVER I HAVE DONE, YOU HAVE DONE!"

He screamed, shrieked the last part, out of himself entirely.

"It's true then. What I have done is murder."

"It's murder if the soul leaves the body. Killing is when the soul leaves the body, just for your information, so this little fucking cultural divide gets through to you. I have never done that, and never will."

"Whatever your diseased mind is telling you, I don't know, nor do I want to. You are a murderer with a crutch, and I will no longer be part of this."

"Then you admit you were curious? Just a little bit. Is that why dear Mohinder the Cure-All arrived too late? Weren't you just a little too curious?"

"Out. Get out, and I hope the damn thing you're so afraid of devours you."

Sylar stood up. "Now, here is where it gets funny. I will leave because I chose to. I will come back when I will. Because these doors…"

He pointed to the apartment door and it cracked open. "These windows. Your heart."

Chandra's eyes widened. "Yes, that is my hand on your heart, Suresh. If I can put my hand there, can't I put it on your soul and put it in my pocket for a rainy day? As you said, the soul is in the brain. Even now, with one injury to your frontal lobe, I can lock your soul so far into an abyss, you won't even have to worry about feeling guilty…in fact, feeling much of anything."

"Tell me what your true power is. Tell me." The man wheezed, his heart so open, and still he had to ask.

"It's not within your grasp. For what I said about the parts that God took for himself…well, that's my ability, in a nutshell. I have to say it like that so you won't go mad. I respect your mind. I trust you will see reason, eventually."

"If you are so very powerful, walk out alone. Go on, and see how long you will last."

Of course, now he had to go. To prove himself. The sign, though gift-wrapped just for him, was a crown of thorns.

"Before you go, with all your souls, have you seen what lies beyond us?"

"Yes."

"Liar. You haven't seen anything that could console you, you leech. No wonder you want to live forever. I hope you do."

Sylar couldn't help but think the man had thought he had won, and he could barely endure that.

"I will give you time."

"And I will take it all."

He shook his head. It was a pity.

* * *

It was more of a pity that Sylar didn't last very long at all.

Within hours, he was in his red painted room, because he was alone. Such things that haunted him would be warded off by human presence, and he wasn't human anymore.

The nightmares, without the sleep aids, grew more vivid, and there was always something eating him from the inside out. Not that he could sleep anyway, with the absolute need to have more, since the empty spaces were so much more transparent compared to the places he had filled, and it had to be, or something else would fill that space.

He placed his calls to Suresh, careful to put it in perspective. He dearly would have loved to kill the man but that would mean giving the thing a clear shot. So he pleaded, even, and he cajoled, and he was ignored. The pattern was not given to him. Names did not insert themselves in his train of thought, so that must mean that only Suresh could provide him with his trail of other selves.

The good professor had taken up his cab driving again. A deliberate shot at him, if there ever was one.

So he took a ride, making the cab skid to a halt with that illuminating flash of power.

"Thanks for stopping," Sylar said, sliding into the cab. Suresh was grim. The glaze of the eyes was stark. It wasn't what he wanted. With this one, he wanted the whole soul to feel it.

"I'm not here to hurt you. It's the last thing in my mind."

"That would be because it's the only thing in your mind."

"I know you are planning to crash this car. Very James Bond."

The wheel spun out from the man's trembling hands. "I just want to talk it over. You were meant to be my Virgil, Suresh. Lighting my way in your darkness. For you are ignorant in some ways, very. I wouldn't abandon you, though. I consider you to be my true father."

"I already have a son."

Sylar turned into an alley way, and noticed that the man was about to try to jump out of the car, his hand on the door handle. He was about to prefer death than be with him. Was he really so wrong?

Then he saw the pattern clearly again. He had to kill his birth father to get to his shop for Suresh to discover him. Like in nature, with all patterns repeating, he would have to kill Suresh for the next _person_ to find him.

"Anything you would like me to pass on, in case I meet dearest Mohinder?"

There was the flash of fear in the mirror.

"Oh please, you could have run days ago. Did you think I wasn't capable of killing you?"

The door handle opened. He lost himself completely. All he knew was that the chicken shit was trying to throw him to the dogs, that's all he knew, and if so, then it was time to have a clean break.

With Suresh, everything came out, and it was so immaculate that he couldn't stop. His bare hands held the man's head (which was quite sensitive, like the underside of an egg in some places) and the sound of it cracking on the steering wheel column stirred him in that way, and it was so very natural, to crack the skull so something would come out of it, the price of his isolation, the bliss of his pending isolation, and he cut the curtain of that dependency, every crack signaling one last blemish.

Distantly, he thought he heard someone yelling. Over the tick, click, crack of the bones, he listened, as if through a dream, and made out the word father. Only then did he stop, since the word was the spell of this hell he was in.

Of course, Sylar knew he would meet the infamous Mohinder Suresh in due time. Who else could be the next person, the only _person_ who would come to find him?

Chandra had been right. This one was a true innocent, fragile, nearly precious. It may have been that he was allowed to know what Mohinder did not, with a body folded just a few steps away. It may have been that Mohinder was just as fascinated, almost with electric intensity at Sylar's gifts. It may have been that Mohinder was one part of himself he did not wish to kill, with his endless curiosity, and thrill at the smallest of things, and need to be better than his father.

Yes, that would have been a bad part to kill.

It was funny, such a lost boy without a father. By this time, Sylar was used to slipping into any role, as they were all circumstantial. He thrived on being needed, and every boy needed a father, especially one that he had seen to take away. The balance would be realigned.

It wasn't, in any way, shape, or form, that Mohinder made Zane an instant friend without thought or judgment or manipulations. It wasn't when Sylar finally showed the glimpses of what made his own father recoil, the prodigal son stared at his true self without a grimace.

And stayed.

That wasn't it at all.

Credits for the fiction as a whole:

--" More so when the whites of the man's eyes would flash up, hanging on Sylar's every move, and most of all the life that hung on his decision. It was like sex, only better."

--" The way Chandra had looked at him, performing his miracle, was the first tantalizing hook of a thrill that was much better than sex could ever be."

--ETA: "And this one too. OO Even now, with one injury to your frontal lobe, I can lock your soul so far into an abyss, you won't even have to worry about feeling guilty…in fact, feeling much of anything."

These lines are based off a statement (or several colorful statements) from the Joker from _Dark Detective_. I don't know which number of the issue, but I know Steve Englehart scripted it.

--" This little room was cozy but they both felt the undercurrents of suggestion: that the boy had demanded to live and did what he must to live."

This has an echo of Grenouille's birth (and will to exist, so to speak) in _Perfume_ by Patrick Suskind.

--" It felt like he had seen the first sliver of red after being eternally color-blind."

_The Giver_ reference. By Lois Lowry, if I remember right.

--God/dog word game.

I credit this to Stephen King in his book _The Eyes of the Dragon._

Thank you for reading. Tell me what you think, if you'd like, including concrit. :-)


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